Fields of Battle
by twistedservice
Summary: We send our children into battle and hope they come home. They return cracked and broken but they escaped the war, and so we take them back and ignore everything else, only grateful for their survival. Let the sixth Quarter Quell commence.
1. Twist

Introduction

* * *

Cambria Carmine — 29 years  
Master of Ceremonies  
Year of the 150th Hunger Games

* * *

"Come on, just tell me, already."

Ferrox let out an ungodly snort, throwing himself back against the couch. He had been teetering across the room for a solid twenty minutes, half-empty whiskey glass in one hand and the other one making grand gestures as he went about. He blinked open his bleary eyes, meeting hers for a brief second before downing whatever remained in his glass.

"I don't know why they made you Head if you can't even handle your liquor," she pointed out.

"That's an unfair assumption, Cam," Ferrox hiccuped, letting his head drop across the back of the couch. His dark, evergreen hair was bright against the pale cream of the fabric.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just don't come crying to me when you fall asleep on the bathroom floor tonight."

Ferrox let out an honest laugh this time. "You know you'd help me."

"Not a chance in hell, asshole. I've done that enough," she said. She peered into her own glass. It was mostly ice at this point but she threw it back, grimacing at the watery taste.

They lapsed back into silence. The thrum of the television in the background was the only noise audible in the room, replaying some sort of over-dramatized soap opera. An Avox walked near silently into the room, examining the half empty liquor bottles on the table across the room. She twisted the lids back onto some and grabbed the empty ones before removing herself from the room.

She could feel Ferrox's eyes on her as she watched the Avox leave.

"Do you need something?" She asked, turning back to look at him. He grinned back at her.

"Just wondering why you want to know the Quell twist so bad, is all."

"Because _I do_. Aren't friends supposed to tell each other shit like this?"

"Madam President would have my head, dearest Cambria. So, no." Ferrox rose shakily back to his feet, holding his hands out for balance. This time it was her that snorted.

"Dominika would forget the second you crawled back into her bed, Fer."

He whirled back around to face her from two steps he had managed to take back to the table.

"That, dear old best friend, is an outrageous accusation," he exclaimed in mock horror. Without another word he turned back around, waving his arms frantically as he swayed back and forth. Cambria could see him smiling even from here.

She rose to her feet, unsurprisingly more steady than him. She could always drink him under the table, even when they were teenagers. Cambria shoved him in the shoulder as she went by, sending him sprawling half onto the couch, his legs lying limply on the floor. She snatched up one of the bottles from the table, not bothering to read the label, and wandered back the couch, kicking Ferrox in the leg before she resumed her position at the end of the couch.

He stretched his arm holding the empty glass across the couch towards her. She tipped the open bottle towards him, watching the amber liquid splash into his glass before she pulled it back, filling her own.

"I see your goal now, Cam. You're going to give me alcohol poisoning so I'll tell you the twist on my deathbed," he slurred, taking another drink.

"Of course it is," she entertained. Ferrox reached his hands towards her, making frantic grabby motions with the empty one. She rolled her eyes and set her glass down, grabbing his forearms to haul him back onto the couch. Once he was settled, she grabbed her glass again, laying back across the material so her head rested against one of his thighs. Ferrox looked down at her, eyes blurry. He flicked several silver-blue strands of her hair out of his lap.

The glass was cool from where she had it rested against her stomach even through the rather thick material of her shirt. Ferrox shifted incessantly for a few moments before deeming he was in a comfortable spot, tucked into the meeting place between two cushions.

"Okay, I've got it," he said after a moment. "I'll tell you if you marry me."

"Oh, not this again."

"But you promised me you would!"

"When we were like five, Fer."

He pouted down at her, flicking her once in the forehead and nearly hitting her in the eye.

"Alright move, Cam," he instructed.

"I'm comfortable."

Ferrox grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like profanity. He jerked his leg up, nearly succeeding in kneeing the back of her head. She sat up with a sigh, squinting at him as he tried to get his legs underneath him.

"What are you doing?" She asked curiously, eyebrows raised.

"Telling you the Quell twist."

"Why do you need to stand on the couch?"

"For _effect_, dammit!"

His legs were shaking by the time he finally got his feet under him, knees quaking together and leather-clad feet dug deep into the fabric of the couch. Cambria looped an arm around one of his knees, leaning herself back against his leg, closing her eyes. She could feel the make-up smudged underneath them and sticky at the corner of her lips, but she couldn't find the energy to care.

"Alright, so," Ferrox began. He paused for a moment, trying to arrange the thoughts spinning his his head. "So, I think it's going to—"

"You think?" Cambria interrupted. Ferrox nudged one of his feet against her.

"Don't interrupt. Anyway, so we're just gonna put all of the kids in one bowl—"

"That's an image."

"_Shut up_. So, they'll all be reaped together. Regardless of District or gender. And whatever else matters. So we could end up with like, half the arena being District One kids. Or some Districts might not have any tributes at all. It'll be very interesting."

Ferrox wobbled from his position on the couch. He glanced down at Cambria. Her eyebrows were furrowed, face painted into something that resembled confusion and another emotion he couldn't even name. She remained silent for a good while, still supporting him with one arm.

"That was a lot less dramatic than I had anticipated," what was she finally decided on.

"Holy shit, you're impossible."

* * *

Meet your Head Gamemaker and Master of Ceremonies, who are both probable drunkards. Well, Ferrox more so than Cam. She just does it for the shits and giggles of making him wobble around.

Details are all on my profile regarding Tribute numbers, the Quell Twist if you're confused, and the form itself. Tributes through review will not be accepted. I'll read them, for my own shits and giggles, but that's about it. Any other questions can be directed to me through PM or however else you want to ask. Updates will be posted regularly on my profile. This story is not first come first serve and there will be no reservations because of the Quell Twist.

I look forward to seeing some tributes from you guys.


	2. Nothing Personal

Introduction, Part Two

* * *

Ferrox Mervaine — 28 years  
Head Gamemaker  
Year of the 150th Hunger Games

* * *

It was raining.

He had not the faintest clue who had decided to test _that_ particular asset out on the day he had come to check on the arena progress, but whoever it was had currently claimed the top spot on his shit list. Now he was stuck in the underground— the starting area, so it's not like it wasn't important, but he had more impressive and grandeur things to check out and this was not one of them.

The walls were rusting and splattered with blood in some places. It was a little too dramatic for his taste, but the others had deemed it a good idea, and so it went. Of the four doors only one of them was open. He could see the rain from his place in the middle of the room, could hear what he was certain was the mud splattering across the terrain in thick layers. By the time he got the tributes in here, the place would be a mess.

"Mr. Mervaine?"

He turned. Someone was silhouetted in the opposite doorway, coat billowing around them from the wind.

"Yes, Cyrus?"

"The President will be here soon."

Ferrox raised his eyebrows, striding towards him.

"She's coming in this?" He questioned.

"Of course. You know her, determined as ever. She wants to check on the progress," Cyrus said simply. He removed his hood, shaking the bit of water from his hair that hadn't been stopped by his jacket. Ferrox peered out the doorway, not daring to get too close. It really was a mess out there, scarce trees and fields of mud bountiful.

"How's it looking out there?"

"Excellent, sir. We're almost done construction of the other bunkers and most of the tunnels are nearing completion. Vantage points are still being worked out for the cameras in most of them, but it's being planned out as we speak."

The low hum of a hovercraft was nearly drowned out by the thunderous storm as it approached. The pair watched as it lowered itself to the ground, settling into the thick mud around it. The bottom half of the release hatch nearly buried itself in the ground when it was lowered; allowing them to see the tiny, ant-like figures inside. A group of them began frantically rolling something out, no doubt trying to cover the ground before the President herself walked through it. Ferrox could pick her out even through the distance, waving them away before walking down the ramp, an umbrella in one hand and her heavy duty black rain boots splashing through the rapidly collecting water.

"Smart woman," Cyrus murmured, almost to himself. Ferrox smiled.

"She'd kill you for anything less."

Cyrus chuckled, a faint smile growing on his own face.

"Head back to Engineering and let me know how the camera mounts are doing, would you?" Ferrox asked. Cyrus nodded and walked to the same door he had previously come through. He paused by the entrance, nodding his head respectfully as the President walked through. In the next second he was gone, yanking up his hood as he disappeared back into the rain.

"Quite the mass chaos you've got here, isn't it?"

"You always know how to make an entrance, President Gardell. And that would be _controlled_ chaos, of course," Ferrox pointed out.

"Dominika. Madam is for someone much older than myself. It's almost insulting. And besides, I think we're past that point," she said simply, closing her umbrella. Water dripped from the ends of her coats to the ground below, a small puddle growing bigger around her boots.

"Are we, now?" Ferrox grinned. The President turned her steely gaze on him.

"Don't push your luck, Mervaine."

"I thought we were on a first name basis?"

Dominika rolled her eyes at him, turning in a full circle to gaze around the starting area. For someone in such a high position she was surprisingly easy to banter with. In some ways she reminded him of Cambria— the biting snark, the eye rolls, the deadpan facial expressions when he said something stupid. What could he say, with the type of women he gravitated towards.

She constantly reminded him that she could have his head, if she so wished it. That was the difference between herself and Cambria, and one that he seldom forgot.

"So, give me a rundown. What's left to be done? The Quell announcement is in three days."

"Indeed it is. Almost all of the outside work is done, we have more so of the underground portion to work on, but the teams are getting through it. Cornucopia construction starts tomorrow, right where we're standing, and then the platforms and mines. By someone who isn't me, calculations are three weeks, four at most to completion."

"Excellent. And the tributes?" She questioned. He stared at her evenly.

"It's harder to do, this year, because of the unknown possibility of how many we're getting from where, but the scouting teams are working on it. We've got a handful decided on and the Career options have been scoped out already, but we're working on it."

They had started doing this, after the fourth Quarter Quell. A tiny whisp of a Tribute from District Three had won, upsetting nearly all Capitol bets and causing an uproar when the nearly unbeatable Career pack self-imploded on the third day. Now they sent out teams to reap the strongest and the most clever, a few crazies here and there, motivating certain Careers to volunteer, tearing families apart on Reaping Day. Most of the higher-ups knew and if not suspected as much, but it wasn't his information to tell. He wasn't an idiot. Cambria would say otherwise, but she wouldn't dare tell anyone either.

Dominika was staring silently around the room. She was pragmatic, if anything. Not vicious, as other previous Presidents has been, but simply smart. Talked to the right people and made the right connections. She was unmarried and Ferrox suspected she would remain so until her dying day. She took plenty of people into her bed, but in the end that all tied back into her connections and who she needed in her hand of cards. Nothing personal, he had convinced himself.

She turned back to him. "Get it finished."

"Of course."

Ferrox watched her leave, coat drifting carefully behind her. She popped open the umbrella just before reaching the doors, where a pair of her security detail was waiting. She didn't check to see if they followed; simply walked out into the rain, ignoring the droplets that fell towards her face.

He rubbed a hand over his face. It had stopped being fun a while ago. He had been doing this for four years now, a year shy of the earliest appointed Head Gamemaker. If he fucked up, Dominika would have his head, connection be damned. Hell, Cambria would have his head, for being so foolish.

It had been close, last year. The head of the mutt department had lost control of one of his creations and only got it back under Engineering's control after it had slaughtered five tributes. Too many in any Games and far too many on his own watch. The man disappeared a few days after the Games ended. He didn't bother remembering his name, after that.

If he fucks up, Dominika will look him in the eyes and dispose of him, regardless of whatever the hell's between them.

Nothing personal, indeed.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who favourited, followed, and reviewed. I love a lot of the submissions I got and I really didn't think I'd fill my roster up so quick, so many thanks. There will be one more introduction part after this to allow me to organize everything and figure out where everyone's going. The official Tribute list will be posted with that chapter as well, along with the blog. Shouldn't be more than a week at most, so you guys won't have to wait too long.

Also, kudos to whoever figures out the arena. I'm not even being subtle at this point.


	3. The Show Has Just Begun

Introduction, Part Three

* * *

Dominika Gardell — 33 years  
President of Panem  
Sixth Quarter Quell Reapings

* * *

She was supposed to be out in a half hour.

That was the thing, this year. It was different. Reapings couldn't go district by district. Instead, she was to pull 24 names from a single bowl in the center of the Capitol, in front of the President's mansion. There were hordes of crews outside, some with cameras, some just come to watch, held back by red velvet ropes.

From her dressing room window she could just barely see the floodlights from the stage cutting across the cobblestone street. A few children ran down the sidewalk adjacent to it, stopped by a few members of her Security detail from getting too close. Their parents followed more slowly behind them but the excitement on their faces was most noticeable. Dominika could blame them, she supposed, because this had never happened.

There was a large screen set up behind the stage she would be sitting on. Every time she would read a name, the screen would direct to that District's reaping set-up where their escort was waiting to pull the child on-stage. Only then would the child come forth, displayed on the screen and in every Capitol home where volunteers were to be called forth.

Ferrox had sent word that there were outliers who had been training, more recently. The reapings could be unpredictable, if they all showed themselves at once and volunteered. The citizens would be more excited, no doubt, and it would certainly make for a fantastic Hunger Games, but it worried her.

They could keep the Districts in line— by killing their children, by letting them live with their hunger, by keeping them awake at night wondering if their children would be gone the next day, but it would never be enough. There was always those select few that dared to push themselves because they had nothing left to lose, or simply because they didn't care if they died, as long as they did something.

She lost count of how many people they had to crush each year, before and after the Games. Weeping parents, rebellious and angry siblings, workers who had had enough of their jobs. She tried to remember their names, when she had first gotten the job.

There was a list, somewhere, she was sure. Maybe she should get a copy of it, hang it somewhere in the room, and remind herself not to be sorry.

"President Gardell, we need to be out for sound checks ten minutes before the cameras start rolling."

Cybell startled her out of her thoughts in a quiet voice. She turned towards her, giving a resigned smile.

"Of course. Damned bastards can't be kept waiting, now can they?"

She let out a light laugh. "Of course not."

Dominika eyed the dress laid over the nearest chair, prim and proper. Her hair and make-up had been done for quite a while, she just needed to finish it off with the outfit.

"Hey, Cybell, get me a quick drink, would you? I can do this myself."

The girl gave her a small smile and an even slighter nod, click-clacking her way out of the room before closing the door. Cybell was one of her newest staff additions, yet quickly became one of her most valuable, candy pink hair and all. She was young, but she was smart, and it was much appreciated. The ditzy, air-headed assholes around her were too much sometimes.

She turned back to the dress, dark green in colour, and began dressing, laying her robe carefully over where the dress had been. It came to just above her knees and was fairly plain, in her eyes, but it left no room for the magazine gossipers to write something tragic about her tomorrow, and so it worked just fine.

By the time she had finished struggling into her shoes, working with the tight dress as her right hand-man, Cybell had returned, a small glass in hand. She quickly snatched it up and held it under her nose.

"Good God, what the hell is that?" She recoiled, scrunching up her nose.

Cybell just shrugged, smiling once again. "Just drink it."

She tossed the drink back as quickly as possible, grimacing at the taste. The burn faded into something calmer after a few moments, seeming to settle her stomach rather than agitate it.

"Well, now or never. Thanks for that."

She was led out of the room by Cybell and quickly surrounded by a small army of personnel in the hallway. A little too much, for her taste, and she wasn't in any danger here. Most would say she could handle it, even if there was, and she was inclined to believe them.

There was so much activity in the halls it was almost startling. She was certain everyone would be outside by now, but being on time wasn't the Capitol's specialty, it seemed. She wasn't about to be the representation of that.

If the inside was chaos, outside was hell. There was barely room to breathe, let alone walk, and for once she was almost grateful for the wall of security, pushing their rather impressive forms through the masses. People seemed more inclined to move once they realized who was at the center of it, but even then the camera flashes only got closer and brighter.

Hadn't they got enough pictures of her by now?

The VIP section was at the front right corner of the stage, roped off and filled to the brim with people holding some drink or other. And there was Ferrox, seated directly front and center with Cambria at his side, who was currently shoving him hard in the shoulder. Right on cue he looked up at her, grinning almost immediately. For a moment, she was confused, until he looked her over once, completely up and down. She glared at him and his grin only got wider, eyebrows raised almost comically. Even Cambria looked slightly amused.

What the hell was he trying to do? She looked down at herself, still keeping pace with her flock of an entourage. Nothing had changed. Still the same, deep green fabric. Still the same colour as his hair.

Wait.

That rat bastard.

Not that it was his fault, per say. It wasn't. He hadn't picked the damned thing out, but neither had she, and come to think of it, she had no idea who had. Cybell? Someone newer who didn't have a clue about how things worked?

She contemplated throwing him the finger but knew that particular picture would be plastered everywhere by morning— _Beloved President Flips off Head Gamemaker, Is She Finding His Replacement?_ —and kept it to herself. He didn't matter and neither did his opinions. She'd do these announcements and look damn good doing it.

The variety of crews moved her through the sound checks quicker than she thought they would. Fashionably late was always in style and she expected things to be starting 45 minutes if not more after they should have, but this was the one thing the citizens couldn't wait for. Already the people, from the workers to those who lived in the big, colourful houses down the street from the city center, were standing still, hands clasped in anticipation, their own high-tech cameras at the ready. Some had their phones poised, hands shaking with nervous excitement.

Dominika wondered if it was too late to get someone else to do this part and she could go back to her room and get another glass of whatever the hell she drank before she came downstairs.

The extra lights on the stage were suddenly turned on, bathing the front of the audience in a golden glow. So the answer was no, she was not allowed to leave.

There was an announcers voice, strong and booming, over the loudspeakers. Immediately people began cheering, their clapping echoing around the square. She could see the bowl with the tributes names in it from here— abnormally large because of the amount of slips. The glare from the glass was already in her eyes. Fantastic.

"—and now welcome your Reaper for this evening, President Dominika Gardell!"

Reaper. She quite liked that.

She took the offered microphone from one of the crew members next to her and quickly began ascending the stairs, heels clicking on the stage edge. It was even brighter on stage and she blinked a few times before getting to the center, willing her eyes to adjust.

The crowd positively beamed at her smile. The silence in itself was almost deafening. She looked at Ferrox, one last time. He gave her a cheery thumbs up, quickly slapped down by Cambria beside him, although his grin remained.

Showtime.

* * *

Sorry to those that weren't accepted, in advance, or if I was super picky with you and you were forced to deal with me. What can I say, I'm annoying. The blog is up on my profile, if anyone's interested! Let me know in a review what you think — if you have any favourites, any people you already loathe, and if it looks alright in general — I'm obviously inexperienced in this, I think. But again, thanks for the favourites, reviews, and follows, because those show that I can't be doing too bad, right? So, without further ado, our final tribute list!

**District One:  
**Camilla Harthgrove, Female, Eighteen  
Amara Williams, Female, Seventeen  
Estelle Galore, Female, Seventeen

**District Two:**  
Terron Calvert, Male, Eighteen

**District Three:**  
Lilith Ashwood, Female, Fifteen

**District Four:**  
Sheridan Ariss, Female, Eighteen  
Astrid Lucretius, Female, Eighteen  
Rossili Daniels, Male, Seventeen  
Hariwin Saylor, Male, Seventeen

**District Five:  
**Audessa Paxton, Female, Fifteen

**District Six:**  
Spens Scrymgeour, Male, Eighteen

**District Seven:  
**Acacia Wilson, Female, Sixteen  
Finnea Mason, Female, Seventeen  
Porter Crankshaw, Male, Eighteen

**District Eight:  
**Kiero Mearlove, Male, Sixteen  
Eitta Wills, Male, Thirteen

**District Nine:  
**Elora Farro, Female, Seventeen  
Quill Grove, Male, Seventeen  
Arlo Brennan, Male, Fourteen  
**  
District Ten:  
**Falco Cavallere, Male, Sixteen  
Abigail Locey, Female, Seventeen

**District Eleven:  
**Mulberry Flax, Male, Twelve

**District Twelve:  
**Gera Castprince, Female, Sixteen  
Cassia Winters, Female, Twelve

Reaping's start next chapter. Until then, everyone.


	4. Contemplation

Reaping Day, Part One.

* * *

**Acacia Wilson — 16 years**  
**District Seven Female**

* * *

According to my sister, I can't be trusted to dress myself, which is why she spent 15 minutes making sure I looked semi-appropriate in a skirt and blouse. She left me to deal with the mess also known as my hair. I have no idea where she ran off to, but knowing my luck, she'll return to torture me some more.

Ivy returns not five seconds later, holding a pair of flat, black shoes, a low pair of heels on her own feet. "Dad's still asleep."

"Good," I reply, slipping into the shoes. They really aren't that bad. "Let him get his ass dragged into the street by Peacekeepers."

Ivy still looks troubled. Her heart's too good for this type of stuff. She tries to help everyone and gets hurt for it, which is why I guess she has me around. Her lips are still pressed together worriedly by the time I finish situating myself. I roll my eyes and grab her arm.

"Seriously, let's just go. Stop worrying about him."

I drag her down the stairs before she finds it in herself to protest, although I see her give once last glance towards our dad's closed bedroom door. When we leave, she slams the door just hard enough so that he'd hear it.

The streets are busier than they usually are, but they're like this every year on reaping day. We slip easily into the masses as we always do, Ivy's arm linked around my own. We try not to fight on today of all days, so in turn I do my best to keep my mouth shut and not start anything. She'd probably start crying or try and hit me, which would only result in something worse than we need.

We're almost to the Square when Timbre wraps an arm around both of our shoulders from behind, popping her head in between both of ours. She looks worried, as she always does, but smiles a bit as she glances at each of us.

"Hey, guys."

"Hey. Where's Zini?" I ask.

"Probably making out with some asshole behind the bakery."

I let out a rather loud snort and Ivy removes her arm from my own, hitting me in shoulder, but not hard enough to do any real damage. Typical Zini, though, even on reaping day. Climbing any sort of social ladder she can, even if it means climbing someone to do it. Timbre joins in on my laughing, but slips to Ivy's other side all the same, pressing her lips together at Ivy's disapproving glare.

I shove both of them ahead of me in line, glancing around the Square. I think we're later than usual, although that might have something to do with the 8am breakfast bacon run. The Peacekeepers are shoving people through the lines and to their sections faster than they usually do. Like every year I end up wedged between by sister, who's craning her head to look around, and Timbre, who's just barely shaking and pretending she's not every time I look at her.

When the Escort, same as the past few years with her dark blue and white hair, pops up on stage from seemingly nowhere, I take that as my cue to zone out. They'll go to the President soon, anyway, it's not like our lady will be reading out any names. Everyone in the Square seems tenser than usual. At the end of the day, every single one of the kids here could go home to dinner with their happy, smiling families, or more than two of them could be sent off to die, and it's like everyone's remembering that at once. We could get lucky, but that's not Seven's specialty.

The first name called onscreen is from District Four. Some small, fourteen year old makes her way to the stage, already smiling with the knowledge that within seconds she'll be replaced. Sure enough, the first official tribute of the Games is a lean, fit blonde girl who walks up onto the stage calmly, holding herself tall and poised. Great. Just everyone's luck, the Careers will be bigger than they usually are.

It switches to some small, Eleven kid. Twelve years old. A fifteen year old girl from Five is next.

"From District Seven, Finnea Mason!"

So far not good.

It's typical, though. A girl removes herself from the 17's a few rows behind us, brushing her long, dark hair over one shoulder. Mason, though. They've been doing that a lot recently, as far as I can tell; reaping distant family members to victors from the first 75 for their own apparent shits and giggles.

The Escort gets the girl onstage and she looks decently terrified, but put together enough for just finding out she's almost certainly going to die.

Not two names later another Seven name gets called. A boy, from the 18's. He's tall though, and broad-shouldered. Definitely from the lumberyards. He might have a chance, if he's smart. The crowd's getting scared, though. Seven names and two Seven's, which is ironic in itself, but sure as hell not funny.

I let herself zone out again after there's a lull. A few more Careers. A girl from One is reaped and no one volunteers. The entire crowd around her is silent.

They're three quarters of the way done, now. Maybe it'll be the same as usual, one girl, and one boy.

"From District Seven, Acacia Wilson!"

My face falls. There was a lot of things I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't that. For a second, I feel tears burn at the back of my eyes, and I frantically blink them away. Fuck that, I'm not crying. I start moving towards the aisle but get pulled back.

Oh, right. Sister. Forgot about her.

Ivy has tears running down her face and a vice-like grip on my arm with both hands. Timbre has a hand clapped over her mouth. She's shaking even more violently now.

"Ivy, let go."

She shakes her head frantically, locking eyes with me. By now the crowd's picked me out. Soon the Peacekeepers will be over here and I'm sure as hell not getting dragged up to the stage.

"_Ivy_, you have to let me go."

She's not budging. She shouldn't be this strong.

I'm about to rip her arm free when someone comes barging through the 16's section from behind. Blonde hair in a mild state of disarray, Zini pushes her way through the gaping kids around me, muttering under her breath. She locks eyes with me for a split second before glancing towards Ivy. Her and Timbre get a good grip on each of Ivy's arms and allow me to wiggle free, backing up a few paces. It's like she's gone limp, staring at me from the circle of Timbre's arms, face wet with tears.

I turn around before she can get the chance to make me cry and push my way free of the section. Almost immediately I'm surrounded by Peacekeepers who begin herding me towards the stage. The two up there are standing there with twin expressions of defeat, although the boy looks more angry.

I'm nearly to the stage when I see movement from one of the streets. Two Peacekeepers have someone between them, moving towards the Square as quickly as possible. Dad. Right, forgot about him too.

He looks up like he can tell someone's staring at him and looks towards the stage, where I've started ascending the stairs. He finally picks me out with blurred, hungover eyes when I end up next to Mason the Thirteenth. His eyes go wide with shock.

Whoops.

* * *

**Abigail Locey — 17 years**  
**District Ten Female**

* * *

The stairs creak loudly under my weight and I can't help but freeze, listening for any sound coming from my room.

Jen and Steffy are still asleep in there. I haven't the faintest clue why they insisted on staying over the day before the reaping, but Jen had been so insistent on having fun regardless of whatever was going on around us that it had been hard to resist. The three of us had stayed to some godawful time in the morning talking about that new guy Jen was fawning over in one of their classes until they turned their heads for a brief second only to turn back and see their friend asleep in a pile of blankets. I took that opportunity to go to sleep myself, grateful to get a few hours before the early morning they were going to have.

There's no noise coming from my room despite the racket my brothers are making downstairs. I had waited for them to wake up for a half hour before wandering downstairs to help my mom make breakfast, convinced that the two of them wouldn't wake up until I forced them out of bed. Both of my closest friends despised waking up early, even if they could blame their own late night antics on being tired, they didn't care to.

I begin moving again upon hearing no noise. I creep closer to the door, peeking in through the little bit I had left open. Sure enough, the two of them are still both fast asleep, half-hidden under a mound of blankets, nearly indistinguishable from one another.

There's a crash from downstairs. I whip around, peering down the staircase. I can just barely hear my brother's snickering from the kitchen. Rolling my eyes, I turn back towards the door, shouldering it open as quietly as possible. I creep into the center of the room, feeling the beginnings of a smirk come across my face.

"Wakey-wakey!" I shout. I clang the pot in my right hand against the pan in my left. The noise is shockingly loud in the dead silence of the room. Steffy jolts awake so violently she nearly falls out of the bed. Jen merely makes a noise of complaint, shoving her hands against her ears.

"You suck," she groans, burying her face in the blankets. I laugh and Steffy pulls her face out of the blankets, sending a rather impressive albeit tired glare in my direction. She's the first one out of her cocoon, stumbling towards me to rip the pan out of my hand. I give her a cheery smile and she glowers at me. The reapings always make her more serious than she usually is.

"Breakfast is ready. Better get downstairs before my brothers eat it all!" I call out, skipping from the room. Breakfast means war, in my house, and war means threatening your older brothers with forks if they take any more food off of your plate.

My mother is nowhere to be seen but my dad is helping himself to the food laying out on the table when I enter the kitchen. The smell wafting around is more impressive than it usually is.

"Morning', kid." He says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and presses a kiss to the crown of my head. I smile, snatching a piece of bacon off his plate. Might as well start early.

Jen enters the kitchen with surprising speed, skidding across the floor on her socks. My dad ducks out of the room with his plate, evidently trying to save himself before the kitchen erupts into pure chaos. I'm surprised my brothers aren't already in here.

"Where's Stef?" I ask. Jen only shakes her head, scooping more food off the plate that she snatched right out of my hands.

"You know she won't eat. She never does on reaping day."

I shake my head, but it's not like I can force her. Steffy should be the least worried. Today's her last day and then she'll be safe for the rest of her life, free to do whatever the hell she wants without fear of getting shipped off to the Capitol. I've still got one more year after today and Jen's got two. My brother's are both out and safe and I'm grateful that I have two less people to worry about.

We spend the next five minutes leaning against the wall, picking at our food with our fingers. I pull another muffin off of the plate closest to me before Steffy walks in. She's already finished, wearing the dress she brought with her for this morning and her hair pinned up. I give her a reassuring smile and she gives me a minuscule one back, examining the food laid out. She doesn't move to take anything.

I put my plate on the counter behind me, tucking it behind Jen's back in case my brother's decide to make an appearance. I cross over to her, wrapping my arms around her skinny shoulders.

"It'll be alright, you know." I say confidently. Steffy nods against my shoulder, but I can tell she's still nervous. Jen practically attaches herself to my back, elbowing me in the ribs before she decides she's comfortable.

"You've got bony shoulders, Abbie," Jen mumbles against my back.

We stay like that for a minute, just holding each other. This is a yearly thing, trying to reassure each other and then getting quiet for a minute, lost in our own thoughts about what would it be like if one of us was taken. We're so close though, and there's so many other people, or that's what I keep telling myself and everyone around me. My dad hasn't let any of us take any Tesserae and we're fine without it.

"Okay, no more negativity or sadness!" Jen chirps against my back. Steffy huffs out a little laugh, looking up to meet my eyes.

"Thanks," she mumbles. I give her my widest smile in return. I begin to detach myself from the two of them, turning to meet the eyes of both of my brothers, who have been examining my plate in silence. How the hell did they even get_ in_ here?

"Don't you dare!" I screech, throwing myself towards them. Jen laughs loudly in the background. 'Drew takes off around the corner, the muffin I had just chosen half in his mouth while Michael books it in the opposite direction, snatching up Jen's plate and trying to hold in his laughter. This time it's her that screeches before she takes off after him, hands thrown up in the air. I give up, standing there in silence in the middle of the kitchen, staring at my empty plate.

"This is all your fault, you know," I say to Steffy. She laughs this time, a real one that's not too loud, but good enough for me on any day.

"Sorry."

* * *

**Rossili Daniels — 17 years**  
**District Four Male**

* * *

"Hey, earth to Ross, is anyone home?"

I blink myself out of my thoughts. Cas is standing knee-deep in the crashing waves, staring at me. As soon as I turn to look at him he turns back to Genivieve, satisfied, before kicking a rather large amount of water in here. She shrieks, hiking up her dress and trots out of the water, shaking her head in a mixture of annoyance and fondness.

"You're both no fun!" Cas yells at us.

"You're five years old, dude!" I yell back at him. I can hear him scoff over the sound of the crashing waves. Gen plops down into the sand next to where I'm standing, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks up at me.

"You alright?" She asks me.

"Ross is just worried about how much he'll miss us, is all," Cas says from behind. He shakes his shoulder-length hair out, splattering with me with salt water. I grimace, shaking my shirt out.

"Seriously dude, what crawled up your ass and died?" Cas asks, staring at me. Now they're both looking at me, genuine curiosity in their eyes. I really will miss them. And besides, what am I supposed to tell them? The Academy picked me to be one of the volunteers if District Four was called out and I accepted. That's what they know. They don't know I'm skeptical about the whole thing. Do I really want to leave them? Do I really want to leave my mom? Not particularly, but I want to win and I don't want to let anyone down. If that means leaving, then I have to do it.

"I'm fine, swear," I say, putting on an easy smile. It's not hard. I haven't been genuinely sad in a long time. When dad died I was too young to even remember him raising me at all. Cas looks convinced, throwing an arm around my shoulders as we leave the beach, but Gen stares at me for a second longer than our other friends does, evidently not believing me and cocking an eyebrow to show it. She doesn't have to and it doesn't matter. I'll be gone in a few hours.

A lot more people recognize me now than they did before. Ever since I accepted one of the volunteer spots people have been prone to clapping me on the back, smiling in my direction, coming up to say hello or give a few words of encouragement so that if I won they could say they knew me, the works. Cas tries to take advantage of the situation every time a girl even looks in our direction while Gen carefully sidles away snickering and leaves me to deal with him.

It's no different this time, although we're so close to the Reaping a lot of people seem to realize that time isn't on our side and so at most we get a few smiles as we walk by or a friendly wave thrown in our direction. By the time we get to the check-in station the line's almost disappeared.

Sheridan Ariss is three people ahead of me. She's one of the appointed female volunteers and probably the one that will get there first, if I were a betting man. She doesn't have a year after me to volunteer in case I mess this one up and she's also one of the people I'm most nervous for. Her elegance without even trying, the way she can hit the bulls-eye with a spear and be looking the complete other way, it scares me. The other male volunteer is tall and strong and downright brutal, and if I can melt happily into the background while the pack self-implodes, which will no doubt happen, then I'll be more than happy.

The Peacekeeper lets me through without barely a glance. Most of the force must know who I am by now, either by name or face. Cas disappears into the 18's and Gen into the 16's a few rows up on the other side of the middle aisle. They gave me a token earlier, a leather bracelet that looks like it could be worn every other day in my life. My mom smiled when she saw it. She of all people shouldn't have to give me anything to remember her by; she's the one that raised me on her own and put food on the table and paid that first Training bill when it came in the mail.

I don't have any close friends around me. There are people from the Training Center — some who give me an encouraging smile or a thumbs-up when I look their way, but then there are the others. The ones who are mad that I was chosen instead of them, the countless 18 year olds who are no doubt glaring at the back of my head for the fact that they'll never be going because of me.

That's the thing about this. It's a competition. Everything in Four is. I've known that since the day we made the first payment to the gym after scrounging through dad's old funds and the Training Center doors opened before me.

Sheridan's the first one on the stage. The first tribute entirely. The fourteen year old she replaces gives a huge, grateful smile and skips back to her friends, who sandwich the girl between them with giant hugs when she returns to her spot. I'm just waiting for them to call a boy, waiting for some inevitable twelve or thirteen year old kid who just picked up a knife in the Center for the first time to get up there. I'm saving someone young and innocent and who has an entire life to live. I can't think about those same kids in the other Districts that aren't getting that, because I can be nice and friendly and protective all I want but it's not gonna change the fact that I have to do this.

I have so many reasons and they're good ones. I'm giving my mom a huge house in the Victor's Village, my friends some damn security, and some random kid a second chance at life.

Maybe it's not for myself. But I have every reason in the damn world to walk onto that stage.

Every reason to win.

* * *

**Lilith Ashwood — 15 years  
District Three Female**

* * *

A nonsense of code comes up across the screen of the old, beat-up computer I have on my desk in the far corner of the room. I squint, trying to read whatever has come up from where I'm perched on my bed, but to no avail. With a sigh, I rise to my feet, kicking whatever's on the floor out of my way before hopping into my desk chair, sending it spinning until it's facing the computers.

Nothing special. More completely mundane stuff. I sigh again, leaning forward to rest my head on the desk. There haven't been any interesting files in months; no good jobs coming from any higher-ups. I'm beginning to suspect the Capitol started getting it's own hackers to monitor stuff more closely. I contemplate staying there until my mother comes to collect me for the reaping, if not interrupted by Echo, who's snuffling around at my feet, obviously looking for something to eat.

"What, you hungry?"

The dog looks up at me. For his size, his eyes are large and pleading and completely non-threatening in anyway when he looks at me.

"I'm going to take that as a yes?" I question. As if in response, he begins to wag his tail. Maybe it's kind of sad to have a dog as your only friend, but hey, they don't judge you for being a tech nerd or for closing yourself in your room for hours to work on stuff, so I'll take him over a living, breathing person any day.

The trip downstairs is difficult, with Echo getting in front of me at every possible opportunity. I collect whatever scraps I can find from the kitchen, dropping them into a bowl I pull out of the cupboards. I kneel down, placing it on the floor, and Echo's head is in it almost immediately. I scratch him behind the ears but he pays me no mind. No surprise there. I'm second only to food.

I can hear my mother rummaging around in her room and pace over to the door.

"Hey, mom? I'm gonna go for a walk!"

I hear a brief, barely there hum. I don't know what that's supposed to mean, so I cross over to the front door and slip on one of my old jackets. Echo's still making a racket in the kitchen. I make sure to close the door tight behind me when I get out into the street; don't need Echo scaring any innocent old civilians when they're already scared enough.

The streets are still pretty quiet. All of the merchant stalls and shops are closed for the day, and I'm an early riser, so the only noise is coming from the Square where they're no doubt putting the finishing touches on the stage and whatnot. A few people are milling about but don't take any care with noticing me in particular. I guess that's the good thing about reaping day— I'm just another kid that could be taken or could go home and that's that, to most people. Maybe not to my mom, but no one else really cares.

I end up at the edge of the Square, hands shoved deep into my pockets and head bent down against the wind. It's closing in on summer and it still feels like hell froze over in Three. When I glance up, the Escort on stage who is no doubt practicing his lines looks just as unimpressed as I do about the weather, face scrunched up and a hand placed delicately over his eyes as if to ward off the chill.

I hate him. He's just another dumb, garishly yellow-haired Capitolite and I still hate him. I hate them all, buzzing around like a little hive of bees, holding all assortments of speakers and microphones and moving the chairs around for the mentors, evidently having difficulty deciding on where to place them. When the Mayor finally joins them to finish the preparations his face is painted in the smoothest form of happiness he must be able to muster, but they all seem pleased and happy at his welcoming and could only be happier if the man was able to make the sun shine.

My gaze ends up back on the Escort. I can't remember his name. Razor, or something stupid. He's been here for the past ten years and in the time he's been here there hasn't been a victor. Either he's bad luck or the Capitol hates him, because he can't manage to move up in rank at all. Our youngest victor won eighteen years ago, and that's a fact I can remember. I don't have space in my head for the Capitol but the fighters I do. They beat the system and that's my goal, I guess, so they deserve to be recognized by me at some point.

I really should be getting back home. If I'm not back for breakfast my mom will start to get worried, if she heard I was leaving at all. But seeing how these idiots operate is more interesting than my drafty, clapboard house and I don't have much fancy to change into anyway. Getting ready will take mere minutes, the reaping maybe an hour, and then I'll be back home staring at my computer like I do every night.

The Capitol lives to waste my time without even realizing it. I'm a statistic to them, as they are to me. A source of entertainment if I'm chosen and a worker if I'm not.

It took me all of five minutes when thinking about it to realize I want them all dead or worse, if they can find something, but I'm not a revolutionary. I'm one person, a fifteen year old who makes her living hacking confidential files in her room in the cold hours of the morning. I have my mom to worry about and a dog who constantly needs food and copious amounts of attention.

I think they should be scared, though. There were whisperings of a rebellion 75 years ago and it'll happen again, in as much time. I don't have much to lose, but there's still enough there for me that I can't start anything. But the people who don't have anything left, the ones who get desperate and start talking out in the factories on the midnight shifts? Those are the people the Capitol should be worried about. One day they'll decide they've had enough and they'll burn the entire world to the ground, their own lives be damned.

I just hope I'm here to see it when it happens.

* * *

First reaping day finished! Let me know what you thought about these four, hell, tell me what you didn't like. If I changed anything about your character or put something in there you didn't include, sue me. You willingly gave them to me knowing I was probably going to kill them, so it's a little too late.

To clarify, everyone's getting a pre-Capitol and a Capitol chapter. There will be another reaping chapter after this, two goodbye chapters, and then two chapters of train rides. By the end of that we'll have met all of these darling children. No you don't get to pick where yours ends up.

Until next time.


	5. Take Back Your Life

Reaping Day, Part Two.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove — 18 years  
****District One Female**

* * *

"Ready in three, two—"

I pause, cocking an eyebrow towards Royal. The older girl smiles.

"One."

I let the knife fly. The blade slips smoothly out of my hand, embedding itself into the center of the target at the end of the gymnasium. I feel a smile growing on my face, turning back to face the other girl at my side. She's only fifteen, training for the Games for a solid year now, and her aim isn't quite as good yet. Her own knife sinks solidly, but into one of the middle rings. Her face instantly falls. There aren't many here today, because of the reaping, and now to her, she just failed in front of One's scheduled female volunteer and their most recent victor. I can understand that feeling, although I haven't felt it in quite a long time. The perks of working hard, I guess.

"Hey, kid, don't worry about it. Still got tons of time," Royal says reassuringly, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder. Royal's small, but she's calm and mature and killed five people three years ago, and so people respect her. They're right to. I want that just as much. I want people to see me and not be afraid just because of what I'm capable of, but happy to see me and eager to talk and inquire about my experiences.

The younger girl disappears to run home before the reaping. While she leaves I twist another knife through my fingers, examining it.

"You too. Go get ready."

"But—"

"But nothing. You're not ever gonna be more ready than you are right now." A smile grows on Royal's face as she says it. She took over my training the year she came home and we haven't stopped since. It's rewarding, in a sense, to make her proud, and to know that I could be her. In the spotlight, adored by everyone, showing my family that I'm better than their reputations will ever be.

Royal disappears as well, no doubt off to meet the other horde of mentors waiting to see what names are going to be called. They have to be there earlier than most, or so I was told, so all power to them. I'm going to be down to the last minute getting ready.

I don't bother going home myself. I don't need my sister making some snide comment about me leaving or my mother's sad attempts at giving me a token with the plastic, fake smile she puts on her face whenever she looks at me. Besides, the training center is empty enough that I have most of the place to myself, and that includes any area I need to get ready. The showers even work better here than they do at home and better yet, no other people to hog them.

My hair is messy and tangled when I get out and I won't look like I just rolled out of bed when I walk onstage. I take the time to untangle it, letting it flow around my shoulders once it dries. Down it is, then. The shower is already proving it's worth. I grab the garment bag I brought with me and pull out the dress I've chosen for today. It's simple, midnight blue, to accentuate my eyes, or so Beatrice said. Her ego might be a tad inflated but she's my best friend, and I severely doubt she'd have let me purchase it if it looked bad.

I slip into the dress, twisting my arm around to reach up to an almost unreachable place between my shoulder blades to snatch up the zipper. So far so good. It does look nice on me, even I have to admit. I just hope that everyone else thinks so, but I can't go there today. My insecurities won't get the best of me when I'm holding my head high and walking up those stairs. They can't and I won't let them.

I've been reassured that District One will be in these games. We're a Capitol favourite and I doubt they would let us bypass a year with no tributes. My spot is secured, and has been for several years now. Royal will be my mentor. We'll still have a pack, smaller or larger than normal, but there will be one. There is nothing to worry about here, except for not tripping on my way to the Escort. That's my only concern as of now.

Make-up doesn't take too long; I don't need much on a bad day and today's even better than normal. It's more navigating the room and finding a mirror that isn't fogged up from the shower to perfect it that's a trick. I use the palm of my hand to scrub clean a hole in the mirror to inspect myself. Almost perfect. I return to my bag, digging out the nicest pair of heels I own. By the time I return to the mirror it's almost clean, just fogged at the edges.

I look normal, I suppose, but nice. A normal girl at first, but pretty. Elegant and refined without showing too much because that's not my goal here and it sure as hell won't be my strategy for getting sponsors. I can see the muscle in my arms and shoulders when I move but the dress really does look nice. Beatrice was right.

Gazing into the mirror, I don't see the girl with a hellish twin sister who will barely speak to her or with parents who strain for casual conversation at the dinner table. I barely see the long, exhausting training hours that extended themselves into the dark, cool mornings. Just me, confident and head held high and perfect smile sitting just off to the side, ready to be revealed when I call out my desire to volunteer.

I see a victor.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax — 12 years  
District Eleven Male**

* * *

"Bear! _Bear!_ Come play with us!"

June loops her skinny, vice-tight arms around my neck, shrieking like a banshee. I sighed as deeply and loudly as I possible can, hoping she'll eventually get the point. No such luck. Apparently eight year old's are stunningly oblivious.

"No," I settle for instead, trying to wiggle away from her. She only holds on tighter, laughing, as her feet leave the ground so she's hanging from my neck, putting me into a half-hearted choke-hold.

"But Beaaar! 'Sugar will be sad if you don't!" Juniper insists directly into my ear. I wince. Apparently eight year olds don't get the concept of personal space, either.

That's the thing about my sisters. I was all of a sudden turned into the old, responsible and evidently bitter one while they get to have all of the fun. Not that they don't invite me too as well, like June's currently trying to do. But I have better things to do like helping my parents keep us all alive and working, which is near impossible in the heat drawing in because of the summer months. Now that'd be ironic. Death by heatstroke. Not by the Hunger Games but by my goddamn job that I only have to keep us going.

Sometimes I allow myself to wonder what would happen if Sugar was reaped. She'd be dead in two seconds, slaughtered by some dumb brute of a Career the second she thought to step off her plate. June wouldn't even know why it was happening but neither would I, really. We haven't done anything wrong except land in the unfortunate shithole that is District 11 and Panem and everything around it.

Our parents say my pessimism doesn't help the situation, but I think my sisters do. I let June steer me outside into the little spot of land we call a backyard. She hops off my back and evidently decides that me coming outside in the first place is good enough, because she leaves me to plop down on the back steps and watch. Sugar's already out, sitting under the lone tree we have, watching as June charges towards her. The two go down in a tangled heap of laughter and shrieks that echo around the area.

"Be careful!" My dad's voice booms out the back door. I almost wince at the sudden sound. His shadow that had fallen over me disappears in the next second but is replaced by my mom's, who comes out onto the steps and crouches down next to me.

"You should play with them, you know."

"I think I'll pass," I grumble under my breath. My mom ignores me, ruffling my hair instead.

"You're twelve, Bear. Have some fun," she says quietly.

"If I'm old enough to die in some stupid death arena I'm too old to be playing ridiculous games."

She falls silent at that. I feel bad instantly, but don't say anything else. Sugar's been in the bowl for three years now, counting today, but I'm new to this entire experience. I think she was hoping that reaping day would make me softer and want more hugs, or something, but I can't magically change into someone like that overnight. Eleven doesn't breed people like that; hasn't for a long time.

The silence is broken only by the excited, upbeat laughter of my sisters, still rolling around under that tree. Their reaping clothes are already speckled with dirt, although if my mom notices, she doesn't say anything for fear of destroying the mood even more than I already did.

Finally she sighs again and puts a hand on my shoulder, evidently giving up on forcing a sunny disposition on me. "Your clothes are upstairs. I need you guys inside in 15 minutes."

She returns back inside, no doubt to get herself ready before bracing herself to herd three kids to the Square in time. I'll end up helping, while my dad walks around like a herder every time June strays off or Sugar gets distracted by something in a storefront window.

I really don't get when I became an adult. How many twelve year olds can say that's happened already? Sure, puberty came knocking a little earlier than it does for most but I've already seen and heard enough that I feel like I should be in an old age home. Maybe that's why I'm so bitter, because I never got the chance to have fun and play with my siblings and just not give a damn about what was going on in the world around me.

"Bear! Pleaaase come here!" June calls out, rising to her knees. I give myself five minutes of something close to happiness today, and that's it.

I cross over to them in quick strides, barely getting a word in before the two of them are rising off the ground like demons and dragging me down onto the ground with them. I get several knees in the ribs and elbows to the stomach before they're situated, Sugar's head on my shoulder and June sprawled across my lap, already looking as content as humanly possible. The sun is just beginning to infringe on the edge of the shade we're resting in, and it's still early enough that it's not unbearably hot. It's nice almost. The two of them make me feel like a better person.

"You're the best, Bear," Sugar mumbles. Well, I'm glad someone thinks so. She sounds like she's seconds from sleep.

I hope they never take my sisters. I want them to live long and happy lives and get married, if they want, and give me no doubt even more annoying nieces and nephews that won't leave their Uncle Bear alone.

I'd rather die than them. The world would be better for it.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

I don't think sitting in my parent's room helps much.

Getting over them just flat out disappearing happened a long time ago for me. I haven't really thought about it in a few months, and even before that, those times were few and far between. I let myself think they got transferred somewhere for doing something they never told me about to protect me. For all I know, they could have run of into the wilderness and made it to somewhere nicer, if that place even exists. For all I know, they could both be dead. But like I said, that thought process doesn't help and so I just let it go. It's not like I can change anything.

The room is dusty. I don't think my grandmother had the heart to touch it, after. She just got more paranoid and spacey after last year and sometimes I think she forgets the two of them are even gone. The way she looks at me sometimes, eyes frantic and blinking, I suspect she thinks I've already gone too.

"I'm doing it today," I say to the empty room. Pointless, again, but there's no one else to really tell. No one that doesn't already know.

There's scuffling downstairs. At least my grandmother knows she has to leave the house today and I only hope she has the thought process to put on some shoes.

By the time I get down there, already having been ready for some time now, she's actually managed to pull herself together. That's reassuring, at least. I know she'll be taken care of once I'm gone but it's nice to know that she has some frame of mind left.

While I wait for her to amble out the door I absentmindedly reach into my pocket. The little copper medallion that I seemingly always have on me is tucked safely into the bottom of it. That's the only memory of my parents I'm bringing with me. I don't need any other distractions.

The journey to the reaping is longer than I'd like, but I wait for my grandmother each time she slows, putting a hand on her back to push her forward. It takes even longer to settle her into the crowd, putting her somewhere where I know the people around her will take care of her if something were to happen.

Some of the Officials know me. Not the higher-ups, but the people taking names and herding some of the smaller kids into the pens, they do.

"You really doing it?" One of the guys at the front booth asks, eyeing me up and down. He looks skeptical about the idea. I shrug in response. I didn't train in the darkest corners of Six not to do it. I just have to hope they call someone's name for me to get up there.

"Yeah."

"Well, good luck to you, kid." He still sounds confused and I don't blame him. Kids here don't sign up for this like I am.

No one bothers taking me to the 18's, assuming I know where I'm going by now. A few younger children pass by me, sticking close together, eyes wide and terrified. Newbies, then. They shouldn't have to worry and I wish I could tell them that. No one around me bothers talking. I think the rest of the 18's are hoping that if they stay silent, they'll be able to pass out of the age bracket without harm.

The Escort takes the stage. He's gotta be in his forties and he's been in Six since the start of his career. He looks less than thrilled about still being here, in fact. In all of those years he's never seen a volunteer. He's about to get one hell of a wake-up call. I don't have any reason to do it, but I want to. I don't know where that desire came from. Maybe I was supposed to be born in Two, raised to fight and kill. Being here just made that a bit harder.

When the names start getting called by the President in her overly cheerful and very obviously fake voice, I start getting nervous. Sixteen names and nothing. Nothing that I can do with them all being from other Districts. Is it really coming down to this? The odds? The odds aren't in our favour, they never have been.

21\. A girl from Twelve. 22. Another volunteer boy from Four. The Career pack is bigger this year.

"From District Six, Nathan Laconna!"

I freeze. From about ten or twelve rows ahead of me, a boy peels himself away from the sixteens. There are tears in his eyes already. In the row adjacent to mine, a girl practically comes flying out of the 18's. Sister, probably. Their faces are the same. Almost instantly she's got a Peacekeeper on each of her arms. It's not like she can volunteer for him.

I begin moving out of the row. The few guys around me step aside without comment. They know what I'm doing. The girl looks up and meets me eyes, and then I see the realization. She knows I'm the guy the District has been talking about for the past few weeks.

"I volunteer!"

The girl lets out a grateful sob. The boy whips around from his position in the front of the stage. The Escort looks like he's a prompt two seconds from passing out. The entire area is silent, and then people start clapping. There are a few cheers mixed in. The smirk finds it's way to my face easier than I thought it would. They're happy. District Six finally has a chance.

I don't wait for the Peacekeepers. I make my way to the boy, who's standing shock-still where he stopped originally. He starts stammering the second I get close.

"Th-Thank you, thank you, s-seriously, I don't—"

I smile at him as reassuringly as possible. His own is wobbly and he's still got tears streaming down his face, but hell, does he look happy. It's nice.

"Do me a favour, alright? Go and hug your sister."

He nods frantically, slipping away from me and all but charging back down the aisle towards the girl. They're both crying but they're also both laughing, and the sound's so relieving to hear that it's already worth it.

I barely notice my own ascent up the stairs. The Escort frantically shoves the microphone at me having decided his own shocked motions wouldn't be able to handle it.

I give myself this. This moment, with the crowd, and almost all of them are smiling. Those two siblings are still standing in the back of the crowd and the Peacekeepers don't look as if they have plans on separating them.

I can do this. I can win. To see this again, I will.

* * *

**Elora Farro — 17 years**  
**District Nine Female**

* * *

I knock on the door once, and then twice. There's no noise coming from inside. When I try the door myself, it doesn't budge. Frowning, I cross around to the back of the business. I know he's in there, so I'm getting inside. Simple as that. My brother's always working nowadays, even before the reaping.

The back door is unlocked. Success. I knew traversing through that muddy alleyway would prove fruitful.

Sure enough, I can hear typing as soon as I walk in, shutting the door behind me as quietly as possible. I kick my shoes off, creeping barefooted down the hallway.

"Door was locked for a reason, sis."

I freeze. God dammit. Walking quicker now, I end up in my brother's office a few seconds later, swinging myself through the doorway and dropping my head on his shoulder over his desk chair.

"But the back door wasn't."

Marley chuckles under his breath. "Typical."

"It's your fault," I point out, squinting at the screen. Lots of words, or something. Probably stuff I wouldn't be able to make sense of, but Marley's been working his way up for a while now. Of the family, he's the one made for this kind of stuff. I couldn't imagine being trapped in this little cubicle of hell, no matter the pay grade.

"I can't believe you're here even today, though."

He shrugs. "Someone's gotta do it. I'll still be there."

I guess I'll never really understand him. I'm all about turning your life around, hell, I've done it. But I'd rather him do it than me. I'm perfectly content with how I am now. There's really not much to do in here, however. I boost myself up to perch on the edge of desk, watching him type away. This is more boring than I had anticipated it to be. Sure, annoying's him fun, but this isn't. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, pausing in his typing.

"If you're just gonna sit here, wanna go get me those folders over there?"

I roll my eyes. Trust him to put me to work, but I've got a difficult time saying no to him. Difficult time saying no to anyone, really. I hop off the desk, tapping him in the shoulder as I go towards the general direction he was pointing in. There's a variety of papers and other things that I can't put a name to scattered across the little filing cabinet tucked away in the corner. There have gotta be at least fifteen folders over here. Shrugging mentally to myself, I wrangle them all into a pile before crossing back over to him and dropping them in his lap. He looks down at them, blinking.

"I didn't mean all of them," he sighs.

"Well then you should have been more specific," I say simply, poking my tongue out at him. This time it's his turn to roll his eyes. He begins digging around in the pile, tossing some of them towards the opposite end of his desk and placing others more neatly in front of him. Still boring, if you ask me. I snatch up a pen out of the little holder he's got next to the keyboard. I uncap it, shoving the little piece into the corner of my mouth, and start scribbling on the side of my thumb. To Marley's credit, it doesn't take him that long to notice. He leans over, blinking slowly at my hand, looking quite the image with an armful of yellowed folders.

"Do not quit your day job," he says slowly, examining the little drawing. It's supposed to be a flower. Evidently he doesn't think so. I personally don't think it looks that bad, if a bit warped.

"What, my day job as a wheat cutter, or whatever we're calling it now?"

"Yeah, that."

My hands are already rough from work in the fields daily. The picture make them look a little better, and besides, it helps to do something when I'm bored out of my skull. Take right now, for instance. I think Marley can tell I'm bored but he's not telling me to leave. He doesn't come around as much as he used to and I don't particularly blame him. He's making a life for himself here.

There's a loud knocking coming from down the hall. Back door again. Marley looks up, eyes a little bit wide, until there's a large amount of yelling outside. Female. Everything clicks for him in the next second. I knew my friends would find me eventually.

He all but drags me off his desk, shoving me towards the door.

"There is no way I'm letting your friends in here, sorry, bye," he says in a rush, all but pushing me into the hallway. I can't help but laugh. Aerin's still making a racket outside the door and I can hear Kaden trying to make her quiet down. Marley looks downright terrified at the prospect of having the three of us running around in here. Letting out an overly-dramatic sigh, I lean up, pecking him on the cheek.

"Fine. Don't be late!" I call over my shoulder as I trot down the hallway towards the door.

"I won't!" He yells back, just as I rip open the door and nearly send Aerin staggering inside, her shrieks terrifyingly loud. I launch myself onto Kaden's back before he has a chance to fully turn around. He lets out a rather loud, indignant squawk, flailing his arms around until he works out grabbing my legs to keep me from falling off. By now Aerin's wheezing with laughter at his attempt to stay upright and I'm frantically trying to muffle my laughter in the back of his shoulder, knowing that if I start, he won't hesitate to drop me.

"Okay, to the Square!" I shout, flicking him in the side of the head. His attempt to squint at me over his shoulder is rather futile.

"Doesn't start for like, 45 minutes, you know."

"Yeah, but it might take you a while, carrying her," Aerin snickers. My eyes widen in fake horror.

"How dare you!" I cry, hopping off of Kaden's back. He lets out a rather dramatic wheeze, clutching his stomach as I give him room to breathe. Aerin takes off down the alleyway I came down originally, cackling all the way. I give chase, yelling after her. It's better, spending my days like this, having fun. I love the two of them and couldn't imagine not having them to screw with, at this point. Sure, Kaden's a bit quiet at times and on the flip side Aerin never stops talking, but I need this in my life.

We both make it to the far end of the alleyway. Kaden's still standing at the other hand, staring after us in exasperation.

"Come on!" Aerin yells at him. I can practically see the daggers he's throwing at her from here. Kaden makes it to us after a moment and I throw both my arms over their shoulders, sandwiching myself between them. Aerin is talking a mile a minute and Kaden still looks mildly pained at having to put up with us, but I love this. These are the moments I live for, knowing I have people like this in my life and that I always will.

I can't imagine losing this.

* * *

Again, let me know how you feel about this bunch! By 'reaping chapters' I obviously meant reaping day chapters because I was not writing 8 very similar reapings, I would go insane. The goodbye sections will start next chapter, so finally, we're switching it up! Comments, questions and concerns can be inserted in the box below! And believe me, reviews might help out your chances a little because I'm already super indecisive on my choice of victor. Hint hint nudge nudge.

Thanks, and until next time once again.


	6. Still Here

Goodbyes, Part One.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years  
****District Eight Male**

* * *

I spend a solid fifteen minutes after my parents and sister leave painting my face back into something resembling stoicism.

It's easier than I thought it would be. Positive thoughts and all that jazz. I don't want everyone in the country getting a startlingly bad image of me, like the thirteen year old kid they reaped just after me. He came up with his head down and wouldn't even look me in the eyes when the Escort finally got him on the stage. When they put me in here there was no one waiting outside his room to go inside.

He's innocent just like I am, but he's a dead kid walking, and I have to admit that.

I don't think I'm completely screwed. I'm not a complete idiot. Sure, I've never been in a fight in my life, but it can't be that hard to pick up a weapon and swing it. I haven't thought that far ahead, though, and I don't particularly want to. I can imagine picking up a sword but I can't see myself killing anyone with it. So probably, maybe I am screwed, but I won't let myself think that. Outwardly confident I can do, just like inner terror.

There's a variety of scuffling outside and a mix of voices, some loud and some quiet. I've been expecting this for a while and I'm surprised they hadn't barged in sooner regardless of Peacekeeper orders.

Sure enough, Marylaw barrels through the door in a whirlwind of dress and red-brown hair and all but knocks me over when she throws her arms around me and latches around my torso like a vice. She's surprisingly strong for not looking like much initially. Soren and Vinsley slip in more quietly, shutting the door with a barely audible click behind them.

"I don't understand how you're being so calm about this," she mumbles into my neck. I shrug under her hold. It's what I'm good at; being calm and level-headed and that's why I'm friends with these three. I hold them together and keep them from diving into some hole or other when they're left alone. She eventually releases me, leaving room for Vinsley to dive in between us. He's small. Impossibly small, like any one of us could throw him across the room, but somehow he seems just as strong.

"I'm gonna be alright, Vi," I say quietly. He nods frantically, just like Marylaw did, but he doesn't show any sign of letting go. He evidently doesn't believe me, even though he was the one standing right next to me when they called my name and watched me walk up there like it was any other day in the world.

"Hey, don't let Mar drag you into trouble while I'm gone, alright?"

Something thwacks me between the shoulder blades. Marylaw, then. Vinsley huffs a laugh into my shoulder, some of the tension disappearing from his hold. When he lets me go he has a wobbly smile on his face, but it's better than nothing. Instantly they gravitate together, Marylaw pulling him into her side, ever the tiny sidekick he is to her.

Soren's still standing in the corner next to the door in the exact same spot he's been in the whole time. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks and he's absentmindedly scuffing one of his shoes across the ground, eyes way too invested on a single spot in the carpet underneath him. I look down myself.

"The carpet is pretty nice," I say, a little louder than I intended to, but it has the desired effect. His eyes shoot up to meet mine, formed into a half-hearted, angry glare. He's been getting worse at his I-Hate-Everyone persona lately.

"Would you just come over here?" I ask him. He must realize that this isn't a fight he's going to win and shuffles over, withdrawing his hands from his pockets. When he wraps his arms around me they're a hell of a lot more frantic and tight than I thought they would be. His fingernails are digging into my back. I end up all but smushed in his arms, my typically normal height dwarfed by his taller one. I don't trust myself to say anything remotely encouraging at this point so I just rest my head against his shoulder as best I can, letting him hold on as tight as he needs to.

He's usually the angry, glaring one. Or at least he acts like he is, because we know he loves us. But he's scared. I'm more concerned about leaving him— about leaving all three of them, and my sister and my parents, that I don't even care about myself. There's too many people that won't be alright if I don't come back and that hits me all at once.

Eventually Vinsley and Marylaw end up on each of our sides, turning our two-person hug into a group effort. I guess I'm not really big on hugs, usually, or maybe I've just never cared in general because I didn't think I'd have to say goodbye. I don't know how long we stay like that, just trying to gather what we can from this last little bit. Eventually the door creaks open and a Peacekeeper sticks her head inside, quietly informing the group of us that the train's leaving soon and that they need to go. For a second I feel all of their arms tighten, like they're going to refuse, but eventually they all detach themselves as one. Vinsley's crying. Soren looks like he's about to. Marylaw wraps one of her arms around my neck in one last effort, dropping her chin on my shoulder.

"You have to come back, alright?" She says quietly. I nod once more. She steps back and looks at me, drawing her eyebrows together like she doesn't believe me.

"Seriously, Ki. You have to come back. Soren's got the biggest crush on you in the world."

Silence.

Soren now looks like he wants to die. Marylaw opens her mouth and closes it again, like she hadn't meant for that to come out. Vinsley's borderline-wheezing, even with the tears will streaking down his face. I for one, don't want to know what I look like. Some things I'd rather not have to envision.

"Well!" Marylaw blurts out. "We'll be going now. See ya, Kiero."

She tucks Vi under her shoulder and grabs one of Soren's arms, all but dragging both of them out of the room. The Peacekeeper is left standing in the doorway. She stares after them, blinking, and then turns back to me, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, fuck," I mutter.

* * *

**Sheridan Ariss — 18 years**  
**District Four Female**

* * *

I almost never thought this day would come.

When we realized that my eighteenth birthday would fall in the year of the Quarter Quell, we were ecstatic. Or at least I was. My parents, and most of all my mother, had no inkling at that point that I wanted to volunteer. At that point even I barely knew. But now that I'm here, it's even better. The pack will be larger than normal and no doubt have more conflict, because of it. I'm not foolish enough to believe that we'll all be unified in a common goal.

I can see the tension points already. The one boy from our District who hangs around the Training Center after hours with what society has deemed as the wrong people. I've never once spoken to him; but he starts enough fights that I don't have to. He'll create conflict and I'll stay on his good side, if possible. Rossili isn't a problem. He's friendly, if a bit cautious, but strong. The other girl, Astrid, I've spoken to a few times in casual, friendly conversation between training bouts. She's leaderly and assertive, if a bit revealing physically. In something most would call a miracle she was reaped even though she had planned on volunteering anyway. I haven't decided if her refusing calls for volunteers will make her look strong, or her not volunteering before I did weak.

I've been pushed so hard that none of that should matter, and won't, in the end. I'm not naive enough to believe that killing is right in any sense, but in a way, it feels like I was born for this. I wasn't put in the Academy for glory or for the hope of winning but it turned out that way. It took my mother longer than I would have liked to accept the fact that I was going, but she was the one that pushed me towards winning, in the end. My father is just as accepting but he'll take the back seat in this. He always has.

They should be here any minute. Cameron has already come and gone, giving me a warm hug and plenty of quiet congratulations and a variety of good luck's. She'll never get the chance to volunteer now but she's truly happy for me. I'll miss her, but she's strong enough that she doesn't need me, even if she'd never admit it.

Sure enough, the door clicks open and my parents step inside. My mother's got a huge, proud smile on her face that's bordering into the edges of excitement, and I find myself mimicking it. Right now I'm the daughter and the friend and everything they have every right to be proud of. I won't have to be the fighter until the games begin and even then I won't let that cloud any sort of judgement I have.

She wraps her arms around me just as tightly as she did this morning before we left. I can almost feel the excitement thrumming through her body. She's excited for me. Almost too excited, someone would say, but in her mind I've already won. There's no thought process in her mind that leads to me dying and I'm grateful for it. She shouldn't have to think like that.

"You're crushing her, Brianne," my father says quietly, but he looks proud as well, in a more reserved way. I smile gratefully at him over her shoulder, but let her hold on for as long as she deems appropriate. She releases me sooner rather than later, scoffing at his words.

"I'm allowed to be proud of her. She's going to win," she says confidently, looking me up and down like she's trying to ensure I'm fully ready to go. She nods once in satisfaction and turns me over to him.

My father doesn't have the same thought process as her. He knows I might not come back, but he also knows I'm more than ready for this. When he wraps his arms around me it's more of a quiet reassurance; not a goodbye but a more hopeful I'll see you soon. He's never felt the need to say much and he doesn't know how to, really, but I get that clearly.

I'm lucky to be so loved. I'm lucky to have people support me and be proud and tell me they don't need to wish, because they already know the outcome.

There isn't much else conversation to be had. My mother gives me another hug, squeezing my hands tight when she lets go and my father kisses me once on the forehead before they both disappear out into the hallway. No one else is going to come. All of my other goodbyes were already said at the center this morning. I smooth over my dress once with my hands and move towards the door. There's no point in me sitting in here waiting for the hour to be up if I'm done.

There's two Peacekeepers outside the door ready to escort me to the car and the Escort herself is standing calmly at the door, waiting for the four of us to move out. I'm the first one done. There's arguing going on in one of the rooms but the other two are calmer; either the goodbyes are more emotional than my own or there's a larger amount of people to see off.

I keep my head high as we're walking, even though all of the camera crews will be outside. There's no need to put on any sort of façade in the building, but this isn't one. I'm almost raring to leave. There's nothing else here for me at this point. Today is the day I've been waiting for these past few years. I've trained as hard as I can and I've won sparring matches and passed rounds of training that almost proved to be impossible. I've got the ring on my finger to prove it. That's the only thing I need — proof that I'm meant to be here. And I am.

My mother was right.

I'm going to win.

* * *

**Falco Cavallere — 16 years  
District Ten Male**

* * *

I haven't quite decided if I want to cry or throw up.

My sisters said both would be appropriate, through a mix of their own tears and ramblings and tight hugs. My parents could barely get words out. We're a pretty optimistic, upbeat family, but we've never dealt with this. Both of my sisters got through the reapings. I was the last one. I guess I fucked that up pretty badly, but there's nothing I can do now. I'm going to the games and running around frantically banging my head against the wall won't help the situation, no matter how badly I want to.

Through my own internal ramblings I barely notice Avis walk in, her short hair in disarray and tears dripping down her face.

"Uh, hey," I manage to croak out. "What's up?"

She manages to choke out a laugh, wiping a hand across her face before crossing over and burying her face against my chest.

"You're an ass."

"Yeah, I know."

We stand there in silence for I don't even know how long, just barely swaying back and forth. Occasionally she'll lean up to press a quick kiss against my lips but then she's back to hiding from the world and pretending like this isn't happening. It's a nice idea. I don't think there's really anything to say, at this point. She knows I love her, and maybe it's stupid, because everyone would look at us and say we're still kids, but I do. She's one of the only things I've known since I was little and she's still here.

Someone comes in not long after to collect her. She frantically tightens her hands around my neck and kisses me one last time, pressing her forehead against mine and just stares, like she's trying to commit me looking at her for the last time to memory. She's not an idiot. She knows I'll try to win, but she also knows there's almost no chance in hell it'll happen. I'd call _myself_ an idiot but even I'm not even deluding myself quite that far.

As soon as she vanishes around the corner with one last declaration of love that the Capitol would probably eat up, Kellen all but swoops in. He stops about a foot in front of me, eyebrows raised.

"How you doing?"

"Uh," I say intelligently. "In a word, fantastic."

Kellen tries to hold back a snort but fails miserably.

"I meant in all seriousness, but obviously you don't know what that is," he says.

I shake my head and lean back against the arm of the couch, crossing my arms over my chest. What word would appropriately sum up how I feel right now? Nauseous? Terrified? Just plain old shitty? For once I find myself at a loss for words and seemingly, so does Kellen. Our parents would be shocked.

"I'm gonna miss you," is what he finally settles on, watching me scuff my shoes back and forth across the carpet. Before he can change his mind he crosses over and all but yanks me up and into a hug, nearly crushing my ribs in the process.

"I'll make sure your family's okay. And Avis."

"And who's gonna make sure you're okay?" I ask him. He shrugs in response, deciding that's good enough of an answer. He's stronger than I am. He always has been. His life's been harder and maybe that sealed the nail in the coffin, but I'm really all he has. He spends nights on my bedroom floor to avoid his own terrible family and I can only imagine what he'll do if I'm not there; settle for the streets, or worse.

We end up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the little couch they've got next to the window. I don't know what else to say to him. There's not enough I can get out right now. Thanks for being my best friend? Thanks for doing what I'm not going to be able to after some huge, dumb Career slaughters me on live television? Somehow saying that doesn't seem right. He'd shove me and call me morbid and that's his job.

"Can you promise me one last thing?" I question. He turns to me, eyebrows furrowed.

"Demanding, but alright."

I roll my eyes. This is us in a nutshell; making terrible jokes in a terrible time. It almost makes me feel better. It almost feels normal.

"Take care of yourself too. I know you've got a lot of shit to deal with but don't drown in all of it just because I'm gone. Live your life, or whatever motivational crap they say. You're not an idiot because that's my job and I know you can do something with your life. Don't spend the rest of it hating yourself because you think your shitty life and me dying is somehow your fault. It's not."

I have to take a huge breath at the end of it. More came out than I initially planned. I know he'll blame himself, and he'll take on every burden in the world, including my entire family and my girlfriend and my stupid cat if that means making up for it.

"Okay," he says quietly. I hadn't expected him to agree so easily. "But don't say that. Because you're not dead yet."

He's right. I'm still here. I still have this and I always will. The Capitol and the games can't take away the fact that I have a best friend and a girlfriend who loves me and an entire family that's probably going to watch me die.

I'm_ still here_. I've always been here. And that's what matters.

They can beat me and take everything I've known my whole life away and kill me for their entertainment. They can do whatever the hell they want. I don't care anymore.

Because they can't take away my existence.

* * *

**Estelle Galore — 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I don't know what's going on.

I was reaped. Two other girls volunteered before I was called. There were only two scheduled volunteers of each gender, just in case, and after that it was a free-for-all. I got called. No one volunteered. Someone should have volunteered.

I'm pacing across the room they put me in. I can't sit still; never had that ability, but it's only agitating me further. The Peacekeepers wouldn't answer any of my questions on the way in here. What are they supposed to tell me, though? They looked just as shocked as I did.

No one's come yet. I have no idea where my family is and I don't have friends my age. When you're all but forced into the training center and only half-heartedly pick up weapons just on your father's orders, people stay away from you. I was fine with that. I didn't need them. I have Queenie, my tiny little cousin who's always attached at my hip and that's it. My brother doesn't care because he has all of my parent's attention. He's the kid they wanted. I'm the mistake.

There are voices outside. The door clicks open and my brother steps inside.

"What happened?" I all but yell at him, continuing my pacing. He closes the door as calmly as possible, crossing over to me and placing both of his hands on my shoulders. I shrug him off almost violently and he takes a step back, looking close to hurt. Good. I don't know when he started acting like the older sibling and he doesn't get to start now.

"We're trying to figure it out—" he starts.

"Well figure it out quicker! They can't send me there, they can't possibly think I'm going to _survive._"

"That's the point."

I freeze, stopping dead in my tracks in the middle of my next round of pacing. I look up and meet Duke's eyes. He swallows nervously.

"Dad thinks— he thinks one of the higher-ups in the Academy did it. Forced everyone to keep quiet when you were reaped. Some are saying you being called was rigged. He knows you're not seriously trained and held everyone else back to force you into the games. Some age old feud between him and dad, or something. There's chaos outside. No one can even get in. I managed to get away but no one else is coming—"

"No one?" I interrupt almost silently. There are tears welling in my eyes now. That means that Queenie isn't even coming. I won't get to see her one last time.

"Mom wouldn't come anyway, but dad, I don't even know where he is. At the Academy, maybe, trying to track that guy down. We didn't know what else to do," Duke says quietly. He's still not coming near me. Afraid I'll lash out again, I guess. Now I just feel like screaming until it echoes around the room and down the hall and outside into the chaos. Let them know that this is wrong.

I'm not surprised about my mom. She's always hated me. I'm the plague on the family and Duke's the golden child; the one they're raising to win when he's eighteen. She's finally rid of me, now. That's when I feel the tears spill up and out, streaming down my cheeks. Duke looks like he wants to step forward. I don't know when he got so tall. He's only fourteen but he's stronger and smarter and more charismatic. Maybe mom was right.

"Listen, alright?" He starts. "I love you, and I know you don't believe that, but I do. So does dad. I can't do anything about mom, but that has to be enough. You're not an idiot, sis. You didn't train seriously but you did and that counts for something."

"They won't let me in the pack."

"You don't know that. Think, okay? You're more headstrong than you think you are. So fight."

I nod frantically through the tears, drawing my arms around myself. I wasn't born to be a fighter but I could be one. This was supposed to be Duke, with his stupid dimples and charm, in a few years time. Not me. I was supposed to see him off and hope that he'd die just to show my parents that maybe I was better than him. But I'm not so sure anymore.

There's screaming outside. We both turn towards the door. This kind of stuff doesn't happen in One. It's all order and pristine rules and calmness. Not this.

A Peacekeeper bursts through the door. There are people circling in the hallway, in the doorways, causing a huge ruckus. It's terrifying.

"You can't be in here," the man barks out, grabbing Duke by the arm. He doesn't even try to resist. There's no point anymore. My fate's sealed and his will be, in a few years. It doesn't matter if we're family. He's pulled out of the room and the door slams shut behind him, ringing around the room before leaving me in the silence, only broken by the chaos outside.

I cross over to the door, putting a hand against it. It's getting quieter. I lean my forehead against the wood, trying to breathe. Stop crying. Duke's right, I'm stronger than this. I'm not a fighter but now I have to be and there's no choice in the matter. I'm not Duke. I'm not strong or overly outgoing but now I'm angry. And maybe anger's enough now. It's enough for the people outside.

The tears finally stop. My face is no doubt red and puffy but I won't be able to hide that. From here on out, I'll have to put on a show. I'll be as dramatic and whimsical and playful as I have to be to get the cameras off the panic and onto me. Off the person who probably sealed my fate and onto my fight.

I step back from the door, tightening both of my hands into fists.

I'm not weak.

I'll show them. I'll show my mother.

Starting now, weakness doesn't exist.

* * *

Goodbyes, eh? So eventful. Again, let me know what you thought about these four, especially if one of them is your own. I love getting direct reactions in accordance to how well you think I portrayed your character. If I did a shit job, well, *shrugs* because I can't really change it. I really, truly appreciate all of the reviews I've gotten so far and I do read all of them, so keep them coming. It's nice motivation.

Until next time.


	7. Life's A Funny Thing

Goodbyes, Part Two.

* * *

**Cassia Winters — 12 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

It's extremely nice in the room they put me in and it's very distracting. I'm trying to think of the larger problem at hand here, namely the whole getting reaped thing, but there's just too much in here to focus on. There's also my three brothers, who keep staring at me like ... well ... like I just got reaped. So there's that.

My dad's sitting on the couch next to me, a hand on my shoulder. I think he expected me to be more terrified. I think they all did. Jay's the only one almost crying and he looks borderline offended that I'm not. Ash is trying to remain his level-headed self but I can tell he's tempted to rip the door off it's hinges just to express something that means anything. Micah's staring at the curtains behind me with a vacant expression. He's probably trying to envision himself, all of us, anywhere but here.

It's more awkward than I expected. The other twelve year old, the one from Eleven, he didn't start crying or look sad. He looked angry. So why is everyone looking at me like I'm about to fall apart, or at least expected to? It's kind of annoying, to be honest.

Dad started off with encouraging words but setting your twelve year old daughter against seven, maybe eight Careers and the rest of the arena dawned on him pretty soon after that and he stopped trying. Ash got far enough to make the rest of them feel better. Micah's hugged me a few times, and Jay hasn't said anything. Awkward's a pretty solid word to sum up this whole experience.

It's not like I won't miss them. I will. Like crazy. The more I think about it the more I miss them and they're still here with me. But I'm not scared. Not like I should be.

I think I could kill someone. I'm no stranger to dead bodies**—** nobody in Twelve is. I really do think I could stab someone, or shoot them, or just end them in general. That's not normal thinking for a twelve year old. It's not normal thinking for anyone, really, except maybe the Careers, but it's better than being sad.

Maybe I could have a chance at this.

When it's time for them to go, there are too many hugs to count. Each one of them lets go and then thinks better of it, grabbing me again. Eventually we just end up in some sort of huge sandwich with me in the middle. I'm not even hugging back at this point; my arms are pressed tight to my sides because of them. My dad grabs me one last time on his own after we manage to separate, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, eyes shut tight.

"We love you, kid."

"Love you too."

I let them leave, even though my dad looks like he has every right in the world to grab me and run in the opposite direction. He holds on until the last minute and only lets go of my hand at the risk of the door crushing his arm.

It's silent, now.

The other girl they reaped had a breakdown. They had to take her offstage before the President was done with the names and put her in the visiting room early, which left me standing up there alone like an idiot. I don't think she's all there. She started talking to herself not long after I got up there and didn't stop. Even then, though, she sounded terrified. More than me.

River and Lux will come see me, once they get away from their own families and manage to get through the security they've got set up. But I have time until then, and everything in the room's too tempting to not touch.

The thick, red curtains open, but they only show the drab gray outside of Twelve and so I leave them alone. As if I don't see that enough. Besides, it just gives me a nice view of the now-empty stage and the lone few people straggling around the edges of the Square. Some have kids. Probably grateful that it was me instead of them, and I can't blame them. Most of them wouldn't last a minute.

There's a trunk in the corner, all ornate and inlaid with polished wood, but it doesn't open. The little dresser-type thing in the corner proves fruitful as well. This is getting more boring the longer I'm stuck in here. I wish River and Lux would either hurry up or someone would let me out to wander around, except there's gotta be something valuable somewhere in this building, so I doubt they'd let me go anywhere by myself, if at all.

I carefully turn the door knob and open the huge, wooden thing the slightest crack, using one eye to peek out. More Peacekeepers than I thought. So there goes the idea of just running for it and seeing how far I get.

With a dejected sigh I close the door and plunk myself back on the couch, nearly sinking so far I lose myself. I pull the red ribbon from my hair, letting it loose, and run it through my fingers. Guess this is what I'm taking with me. My dad probably couldn't afford anything else and my brothers have enough to worry about without giving something up for me.

Maybe it's not right to think I have a chance in this. A better chance than the girl I'll be next to, in the very least. A better chance than the timid, tiny thirteen year old from Eight or the people who don't know what just happened and are no doubt still sitting in the arms of someone they love, reeling from the impact. But I'm okay. Better than okay, actually.

I know a few things. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Twelve doesn't raise stupid or naive kids.

And I'm pretty sure I could pick up a knife and kill someone, regardless of the consequences.

* * *

**Finnea Mason — 17 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

I think we've been expecting this for a while but continued to push it into the back of our minds in the hopes that if we ignored the problem, it'd go away.

They reap a victor's ancestors from a random District every few years, it seems. Maybe to see if they have any fight like they did, or maybe just to shut down any inkling of rebellion they think exists. I spent so much time worrying that they would take one of my sisters when they finally entered reaping age that I forgot about myself. I think everyone did.

My mom and my sisters ran back to the house to get me a token, or so my dad says. That leaves me and him to sit next to each other in the near-silent room. He's strict, usually, or barely even there at all because he's working to feed the four of us. I can't blame him for that but that only means I have no idea what to say now besides I love you. I know he'll take care of the rest of the family, so there's no worry there.

A few years ago he joked about changing the family's last name so we could go undetected. I remember laughing. I don't know Johanna Mason. She died seventy-five years ago in the Quarter Quell. I don't even know how I'm related to her; so distantly that the Capitol didn't think to kill off the branch of them the first time around. But they found us, now, and there's really no option.

Rosalind toddles into the room ahead of mom and Ainsley, running over to me and allowing me to scoop her up into my arms. She's still small enough for me to hold her without too much trouble, although I guess that's the perk of a six year old. Mom's crying. Ainsley is going through a range of different emotions and I can't even pinpoint any exact one.

"We don't have much else that's valuable," my mom sniffles, holding out a ring. She's right, it's one of the only things we have that's of any worth and it's technically not even ours. It was my grandmother's wedding ring. Still, I take it with my free arm and slip it onto my ring finger of my other hand that I've still got wrapped around Rosalind's waist.

"It's perfect."

My mom nods frantically and my dad wraps an arm around her. We're already falling apart and I'm not even gone yet.

Rosalind doesn't seem to really understand what's going on except for that I'm leaving. She's too young to watch the Games; one of us is usually left to entertain her and speak loudly enough to drown out the noise of the television in the background.

"Are you going on an adventure, Finn?" she asks me. The smile on her face is too sweet to break.

"Yeah. It's gonna be a lot of fun," I lie, forcing a similar smile onto my own face. The look on my mom's face nearly sends me into tears; but I won't do that now. Not until they're gone or until I'm locked into some room of the train. Rosalind seems pleased with my answer and smiles even wider.

"Are you going to bring me back a present?"

It's harder to force my way through that one. I can't tell her I might be coming back in a box or in pieces that the Capitol has to sew back together before they ship my dead body off. Instead I just nod, letting her slip out of my arms when she laughs excitedly before toddling back to our mom's side. My dad scoops her up and places her on his shoulders, thoroughly entertaining her for the time being.

My mom's shaking violently when she hugs me. She's too protective over all of us. If I was allowed to stay I'd probably be living at home until I was thirty because she wouldn't let me leave. I don't think she ever got this far in her plans for her kids, maybe because it would only mean considering that this would've happened sooner. I can't help but wonder if it would have been better, had she realized that this could happen. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad now.

Hugging Ainsley is awkward at best. We've never gotten along. Half of my life has been spent chasing after her and yelling at her louder than I ever do to _get out of that tree_ or to _stop jumping in that mud puddle because mom's going to kill you_. I almost wish that we could have a cliché moment where we realized how much we really did love each other and would miss each other, but I'm not one for brave or loud declarations and there's no way in hell she's going to admit it.

She presses her lips together and steps back from me, avoiding looking me straight in the eyes. She's not as tough as she likes to think. She's still my ten year old sister that's a hell of a lot tinier than she comes across when you talk to her or even stand in her presence.

"Listen to me, hey?" My dad says, still holding onto Rosalind's squirming legs. "It's probably a curse, but you've got the last name for a reason. A Mason's won before and I think it's due time for another one."

He won't tell me to win. He's encouraging me to try harder than he thinks I can. It's a declaration of faith in the only way he knows how to say it.

I think it is more a curse than a blessing, being born in this family. Maybe we're all doomed to die. But he made it through and maybe because I'm going, my sisters will be safe when it's finally their turn. Maybe this is for the best. Out of all of us, I have the best chance. Ainsley's a fighter, but she'd get herself killed, and I can't even think about Rosalind fighting when she's too young to even understand why I'm leaving. I think I deluded myself into thinking we'd all get out of this situation unscathed.

Fate's not good to Mason's. So maybe I should stop believing in it.

Maybe it never existed in the first place.

* * *

**Arlo Brennan — 14 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

I don't think they know what to do with me.

They went to bring me into one of the waiting rooms and I told them not to bother. Not viciously, or angry, not at all. But no one's going to come and I didn't think I should waste their time.

Now I'm sitting in a dead-end hallway on this ridiculously comfy little lounge chair that they dragged down here for me. I can see people at the end of the hallway, coming and going, disappearing into the two other rooms. Both of them seem like alright people and they've clearly got family and friends that care about them leaving. It's good to see that stuff like that still exists.

I'm not bitter about it. My mom was sick when she was pregnant with me and refused to give me up. She died three days after having me and two years later my father drank himself to death. I don't remember either of them and I don't think I can blame them for leaving. Not my mom, certainly, for that wasn't her choice, but I guess my dad just didn't see fit reason to live anymore. I was a baby. It's not my fault. No use moping about it.

Sometimes the people from the Home will come see kids off before they go, but they've got enough on their plates wrangling that many kids to and from the Square, so I don't expect it. They raised me and they didn't do a terrible job of it.

A Peacekeeper turns the corner and comes striding towards me. He pulls off his helmet and plops down in the chair opposite me. He's young to be on the force, maybe early twenties, and he certainly doesn't look mean enough.

"Uh, hi?" I say to him. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

"You're surprisingly calm and alright with the no-one's-coming-to-see-me thing for a fourteen year old."

"Used to it," I tell him, shrugging my shoulders. I haven't really _had_ anyone for a long time.

"Why are you down here? Don't you have like a job, or something?"

The guy actually does laugh, this time. "I was supposed to be stationed outside the room you were in, and then you fucked that idea over. So don't blame me."

This is a new level of weird. I'm having a legitimate sort-of alright conversation with a Peacekeeper who could probably get canned for sitting with me, and just before I'm going to get into a super-speed tin can to ship me off to the Capitol. What a day.

He asks me my story, eventually, and I tell him. No one else knows, really, because no one in the Home cares. We're all parentless and it's just kind of accepted that we don't like or always want to talk about it. I would, if more people asked. There's nothing for me to hide. By the time I'm finished he's staring at me pensively, eyebrows furrowed.

"You got a guidebook about how to stay happy and positive and all that neat stuff despite your shitty life?"

I try not to smile. I get asked that a lot, in different words and ways, but it's always the same question at the root of it all. People don't understand how I am the way I am. It's be happy or be sad and being sad sucks. Even now I'm more level-headed than I thought I'd be. I never really expected to live that great of a life, or a long one, for that matter, so I thought I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. It's no different now. I'm not coming back. Even if I somehow made it to the end I wouldn't feel right taking away someone else's life when they've most certainly got more to go back to than me. That's just how life is.

"No guidebook, sorry. Just try really hard?" I suggest. The guy rolls his eyes. He looks back towards the other end of the hallway. The boy is coming out of the room. Quill, I think. I can't remember the girl's name. There have been a decent amount of people going in and out of her room, spending more time with her than I think they're supposed to be alotted.

"You ready to go?" The guy asks me.

"Not at all."

I leap to my feet regardless. It's not like I have much of a choice in the matter. The guy's taller than me by at least a half a foot and tucks his helmet under his arm, putting a hand on my shoulder like he has to steer me out.

"Hey, what's your name?" I ask him. He looks down at me, pressing his lips together like he's wondering if it's worth answering. I think despite all the laughs and the eye-rolling I just made him sad. To him I'm just another Nine that's going to die some horrible death and I made it worse by making him the last person I'm going to talk to before leaving.

"Elian. Good luck, kid."

Apparently his job's done, then. I give him a smile and a friendly nod and he returns it as best he can. Definitely made him sad, which wasn't my goal at all. I already feel bad, but there isn't much I can do about it now. The Escort in all his tattooed glory is already attempting to heard us together and there's another wave of Peacekeepers pushing the camera crews back from the door. Quill looks more irritated than upset and the girl looks like she's just gone somewhere else mentally.

I turn back to Elian and give him one last wave, putting on my best show of positivity to hopefully communicate that I'll be alright.

He doesn't return it. I didn't expect him to.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

My brother refuses to take off his helmet when he escorts me to the goodbyes and it's more than a little satisfying.

He didn't know and neither did Tyge. My parents didn't know. My friends knew. The Academy knew; hell, the Academy _chose_ me to volunteer today. My family didn't want me training and I don't know what they expected. I didn't listen then and I sure as hell don't now. I saw my mother when I walked onto the stage; ashen-faced and horrified. My father looked entirely blank and my brother in the 15's equally so. What a surprise for them.

I personally think it's very exciting. I doubt they'll think so, but I'm finally getting what I want. I'm finally going to be able to tear people apart and not face the consequences of some higher-up or other punishing me for it. What a time to be alive.

My parents burst into the room quicker than I expected them to. Kudos to them. Tyge, who slides in behind them, has the perfect picture of dread on his face. Oh, this is too great.

"You could have told us," is what my dad finally settles on.

"And get what in return? You didn't want me training so I found a way to do it myself. I'm going and it's a little too late to stop me."

My mom looks like she's about to cry, a hand placed delicately over her mouth. Serves her right for spending all of her time trying to incite some sort of rebellion or other behind our father's back. She spent too much time looking elsewhere to notice that I'd disappear at night to train or the fact that I'd slip in just before the sun rose and pretend I'd never left. None of them did. This is their fault.

"We've done nothing but love you and this is what we get in return? Your dead body?"

"I'm not going to die," I all but snarl at her. "I'm ready for this. I'm going to win and I'll come back and you'll understand why."

Clearly everyone's already at a loss for words. A few tears do slip down my mother's face at that and my dad, usually level-headed and calm, looks as if he's about to explode. Tyge is still standing silently behind them, arms wrapped around himself.

"You haven't said much," I direct to my brother. He presses his lips together so hard they turn white.

"You're insane," he says quietly. This time I can't hold the scoff in.

"I'm insane because I'm the only one in this family who will actually stand up and do something. Not like you."

Tyge goes pale at that. Him and my mother have been feeding underground rebel groups with information for years but they still sit in living room as if nothing had ever transpired when people get shot in dark alleyways in the middle of the night. Wonder what my father would do if he knew that little bit of information.

"That's enough," my father says sternly. It's hardest to intimidate him. If only he knew what I've done. If only he knew of the things that have happened at the Academy; _accidentally_ getting a little too close to someone during sparring, sending people to the hospital with broken limbs and bruised faces, getting word that you hit one a little too hard and punctured one of their lungs and they fucking _died_. Things like that change you, electrify you when you realize how easy it is to crush someone between your bare hands when no one's looking. He'd be afraid of me. Run in the opposite direction, probably. They all would.

"You don't get to make the decisions anymore. In fact, you haven't for a while now," I point out, almost trying not to smile at the fact. He looks positively furious, but that's not his image. He won't lose it now and risk making the situation worse.

No one says anything. You could hear a pin drop in here. It was a tad less dramatic than I was expecting, but there are still plenty of tears on my mother's part and Tyge still looks like he's contemplating throwing himself out the window if I open my mouth again. It leaves me and my father in an equal-heighted, hard-eyed staredown across the room. I've dealt with worse than him, though.

I am worse than him.

"Well," I say suddenly, clapping my hands together. "That was fun. I'll be going now."

My mother opens her mouth and closes it only when my father grabs her arm, shaking his head. I shoulder past Tyge before we can get in a word otherwise and step into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind me and leaving them in there. I don't think I'm supposed to be out here and I don't care.

Leuth is standing next to the door. He's got his helmet tucked under his arm now and his eyes are completely blank, but still lock onto me when I end up next to him. All of the other Peacekeepers seem to realize the relationship and let me be. Good riddance.

"You didn't have to do that," he says evenly. His eyes don't leave the wall across from us, blank as ever.

"Eavesdropping on family conversations is ugly, bro."

"I am your family. And you didn't have to do that."

He never comes around anymore, ever since he joined the Force and my mother won't look him in the eye because of it. I used to look up to him and now I don't want to at all. He chose his life and I just chose mine. It'll be ugly when I come back— my mother will still be crying and my father will still be furious and Leuth might just try to repair all of the relationships he managed to fuck up over the past few years and I won't let him. My victory isn't his second chance.

"Well come on then, don't waste any more of my time than you already have. Let me outside."

For a second something like sadness flickers it's way into Leuth's eyes, quickly replaced by the blank nothingness he's managed to put on ever since he left our house. He slips his helmet back on and points me down the hallway.

They'll all understand once I come back. But not for a damn second will I let them forget about any of this.

I'll make certain that they pay for it for the rest of their lives.

* * *

Well, goodbyes certainly bring out some interesting characters. What can I say, thanks for giving me such a diverse cast to work with and bounce off of each other. Anyway, this marks the end of the goodbyes section and allows us to move forward on the ever lovely train rides! Again, please, please let me know what you thought about these four; likes, dislikes, questions along the lines of "what is this dude's problem" and anything else! I do appreciate each and every review I get and thank you very much if you're still actively here. It seems as if my attempts at review whoring are failing miserably.

And I forgot to mention it last chapter, for whatever reason, but I put a Victor blog up for everything post-4th Quarter Quell! It's on my profile, if you're interested.

Until next time.


	8. Gasoline

Train Rides, Part One.

* * *

**Audessa Paxton — 15 years**  
**District Five Female**

* * *

It's lonely, being the only tribute.

I technically don't think I should be allowed to complain, but it would be nice to have some company. Bellona's been helping me out with that bit; for a Capitol Escort, she's a lot nicer and easier to talk to than I initially expected. She's been giving me a tour for the past half hour, trying to stop me from crying by making quiet, yet simple comments about something to make me laugh. I think I'm cried out at this point.

Bellona leads me to the dining car and sits me down, before striding off to find Lumin. She's not anything like her sister, at least in appearance. The Carmine girls, both Cambria and Bellona, have high-standing, respected jobs, but the latter seems a bit more quiet, perhaps because she's always been in the shadow of her elder sister. Either way, even though they're from another world, it's nice to know that they're not all terrible. Bellona takes care of the Fives the whole way through and Cambria gives them an easy time during the interviews. I appreciate that.

Lumin appears only a bit later. He's our youngest victor, but when your District only has three of them, it's hard to be picky. Either way, from what I've seen, he's safely on the sane side of things, and nice to boot. He sits down in the chair opposite mine and crosses his legs, studying me for a moment.

"So, seems like District Five isn't going to lose anyone this year, eh?"

For a moment I don't understand him. But then it hits me; he's telling me that I'll win. Or, in the very least, that he's going to instill some hope that I have a chance. I muster up my best smile. It's nice to know that someone, at least, cares about my chances. Bellona comes back into the room and drops herself into the chair next to mine, a drink in one hand.

"Sorry, continue," she says, taking a sip of her drink and waving her hand absentmindedly.

"So, Audessa—" Lumin starts.

"Dess is fine," I interrupt. I hadn't meant to cut him off and smile sheepishly. He only nods in response.

"Dess, then. I looked a bit into the file they've pulled together on you and you're obviously not in the best of circumstances. You do look quite capable, though. More muscle than I thought."

"I did some gymnastic-type things a few years back. Stopped because of the money, but," I explain. Lumin brightens up a bit at that.

"So you have some strength, then, and you can move. Weapons might not be that hard for you to learn. First and foremost though, allies. We're already at a disadvantage with you being the only one here, but you seem like a good kid. Shouldn't be hard for you to find some."

I nod. He's doing a great job at making me feel good about myself. Allies already make me feel better about my chances. If I could find a few friends to depend on, maybe the situation would get easier. They would certainly provide a welcome distraction.

"So, who am I supposed to pick?" I ask. I can't get any further than that. Obviously the Careers wouldn't spare a glance in my direction and I'd be glad to avoid them. Other than that, who would ally with me? Lumin's right, I've got no weapons experience and all I know is the dreary, gray world of Five and the power plants. Nothing I can use in the arena, unless they stick me in a dam.

"What about we let you watch the recaps?" Bellona suggests. "We let you see who you like based on first impressions and then get to know them better in the Capitol?"

Lumin blinks. Bellona started the year he won, and I think he's still in a state of shock that she can be mildly helpful when she puts her mind to it. All the same, he nods, throwing a grateful look in her direction.

"Sounds good," he says. "We'll get some dinner coming and then we'll put it on. Alright?"

Once Bellona wanders off to go give instructions to whomever and Lumin starts fiddling with the variety of television controls and remotes, I feel alone again. He's still in the room with me but I still can't get the thought out of my head that I might be alone going into this. The feeling is so overwhelming I almost want to cry all over again, but I think I'm dried out. At least the goodbyes gave me that much.

I've got parents to go back to. A ton of friends who came in and cried with me because we thought all hope was gone. But everyone thought Lumin was a goner, too, and all of our victors since they started the Hunger Games. Five doesn't produce victors; sometimes we just get lucky or figure out a way to tear down the entire arena, like our own personal power grid. Maybe like a blackout, and when the lights come back on, we're the only ones left standing.

Right now, I'm alone. But I don't have to be. That's all up to me.

Lumin finally gets the television on what must be the right setting and flicks the volume up, gesturing me over to the other side of the room. I sit down next to him on the couch, crossing my legs, and focus my attention on the pre-reapings that are just beginning to play. Behind me I can hear trays being brought in, carts no doubt laden with food that I've never seen in my life, but those things don't matter to me right now.

I don't know if I can do this, but maybe Lumin was right. Maybe, for once in our lives, District Five will lose nothing.

* * *

**Porter Crankshaw ****— 18 years  
District Seven Male**

* * *

The Escort finally leaves me the fuck alone when I threaten to open a window and throw her wig out of it, to which she responded that she wasn't wearing one, and stormed off. Finnea had watched her go silently, but Acacia had started laughing quietly, trying to smother her laughs against her forearm.

Ever since then I've locked myself in my room, only opening it when someone said that I had missed dinner and came to deliver me a plate of whatever deliciousness I inhaled. They've got good food, I'll give them that.

I'm not usually this angry. Or at least I'm quieter about it. I'd spend my days hacking at a tree and imagine that with every stroke I'm that much closer to actually living. But now that they've torn me away from my family and ripped apart everything I ever know, I'm frankly kind of pissed. I was too damn close to being free forever with only worry about my little siblings. Then again, if I had to watch all four of them go through six years of hell, I have almost no doubt I'd have gone insane. Maybe it's better that they're just putting a figurative bullet in my head sooner than that.

I creep up to the door. It's gone quiet; has been for about an hour now. The little window I have tells me that it's very obviously dark, so everyone's probably gone to sleep.

The hallway is empty. So far so good. I walk silently to the end of the hall. There are still a few random pastries sitting on the cart against the wall. I snatch one up and shove half of it in my mouth. Seriously, where the hell have they been hiding this stuff?

"Hey."

I start choking on the cloud of icing sugar that erupts from my mouth, narrowly avoiding jumping half a foot in the air out of sheer surprise. I whip around, frantically trying to catch my breath. Acacia's sitting on one of the benches next to one of the wide windows they've got installed, knees drawn up to her chest. She's got a smug smirk across her face.

"You alright there?"

I throw her the finger and she laughs before turning back towards the window, gazing at whatever the hell's rolling by. It's too dark to tell, really, so I don't know what's so fascinating about it anyway. I take another pastry from the plate and plop myself down on the bench next to her. It's all rolling hills and black sky. That's it. I can feel my eyebrows furrowing together. Is there something I'm supposed to be appreciating?

"It's better than listening to Mason pacing through the walls all night," she says quietly. So there's the explanation. Finnea's probably the most scared out of all of us. Acacia's nearly as angry as me about the whole thing, I'd guess, just keeping it to herself for fear of making the situation worse. I, for one, can't find it in me to care.

"So, you think you have a chance?" She asks me.

"Yeah, sure. A Seven kid going at someone with an axe is about as stereotypical as it can get, but it's better than nothing. You?"

"I throw knives at trees in my spare time. Guess we're in the same boat, then."

For a second I think she's kidding, but the look on her face tells me she isn't. Or maybe not even that, it's just the way she says it so casually. I've seen her in the yards, or just barely, when she's up in the tops of the trees testing their safety for the heavier guys with the girl who has to be her twin, they look so alike, but that came out of left field. Not bad, though. She's small but she's smart, fast, and would probably throw a knife at my face if I looked at her wrong.

I wasn't lying about my chances. I think I could win. Sure there are more Careers than usual but if I'm anything, it's persistent and stubborn as all hell, jumping straight into things without looking both ways down the road. I'm not anymore scared than I was this morning, and I don't think Acacia is either. That, or she's hiding it damn well, which is admirable.

I don't know if I trust Finnea. Don't know if I ever will be able to. She's too quiet. Somebody like her I don't know how to handle, because I'll never know what she's thinking. And while she has all the traits of somebody that's shy and meek, she's the type that'll either lay down and die or double-cross the people who thought they could trust her. For all my bravado I won't let that happen.

I'll never understand why my parents had to wait eight years before having four more kids, leaving me to morph into the older brother with the weight of six mouths to feed on my shoulders. I don't mind it, though. It's nice to know they all care. The way they all clung to me at the goodbyes hurt me a hell of a lot more than I'll ever admit.

So I need to make it to the end. I need to win for them.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot," she responds.

There's a chance she'll tell me to fuck off, but I don't care. I'll leave and go back to bed if she does. More power to her for going at it alone.

I hold out my hand to her. "Allies?"

She slowly turns to look at me, removing her gaze from the window. Her eyes travel to my outstretched hand, her eyebrows raised almost comically. I can see the mistrust in my eyes. I'm still hesitant about this myself, but I need to get somewhere. I think she does too, so I can only hope I'm reading this right. We're stronger together and while I've known her for all of ten minutes and barely spoken to her, she's going to go down in a ball of fury. I know that. If I have to go, I'm going the same way. Let the whole world know.

Acacia's hand tightens around my own. There's even the edge of a smile playing around the edges of her lips. From here on out, we're doing this together and we won't leave each other behind.

"Allies."

* * *

**Gera Castprince ****— 16 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

I don't usually mind the Games. They're entertaining, in their own right, as everything can be. But now that I'm here, I haven't stopped shaking. Every time I pick up my fork it clangs against the edge of the plate.

Cassia keeps looking at me funny. She's been shoveling food in her mouth like there's no tomorrow, almost like she hasn't a care in the world but the meal in front of her. I wish I could be like that. I just keep thinking of my mom saying that she couldn't lose me too and the dead look in my father's eyes when they made him leave.

_You're more frightened than a twelve year old. How does that feel?_

_Shut up_, I whisper back in my head. The voice has only gotten progressively louder since I got on the train, like it's taunting me. Like it knows that I'm going to die.

_You are going to die._

"Shut up," I mumble again, this time under my breath. Cassia glances at me again, fork halfway to her mouth. Ashara, sitting at the head of the table, looks downright confused, glancing between the two of us like she's missing out on something important. Cassia doesn't know anymore than she does, though. The Escort who's name I can't remember; all I know is that he just started this year, looks like he's regretting his choice in career the longer he's sitting near me. I can't find it in me to spite him for that.

I take another bite, refusing to lift my head. Vaguely I hear Ashara starting up a conversation with Cassia, something about the reapings and talking about the other tributes that they can remember off the top of their head. The Escort**— **Lathum, that's his name, quickly joins in, eager to do anything than watch me talk to myself.

_That's right. No one wants to pay any attention to you._

I bite my bottom lip so hard I can taste the blood in my mouth. Ignore it. Ignore it and it will go away. It wasn't always there, and so it can go away again, right?

_Wrong._

_Always wrong._

_Such a fool, believing it'll get easier._

_You were doomed from the start._

"Stop!" I yell, drawing my hands up to cover my ears. The voice fades into silence, but now everyone in the table does as well, staring wide-eyed at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, moving my hands over my face instead. It's better, now that I can't see them, but I can still feel their eyes boring into me like they're looking for some sort of answer. Like I'm one hell of an unsolvable enigma.

A hand touches my arm. It's hesitant, soft, most likely concerned, but I flinch away so quickly and so violently I nearly knock my chair over in my haste to stand up and get _out. _I'm running before I realize I made the conscious decision to, leaving my mentor and a tiny twelve year old to stare after me, while Lathum puts his head into his hands and sighs deeply, like I'm his personal problem. Maybe I am. That's all I've ever been, someone's concern or problem or confusion. I don't amount to anything else.

_Good job. You've finally realized it._

I don't bother responding. That only fuels it. It? Does it have more of a voice than that, or am I letting it?

I lock myself in the first room I find, a lone little bathroom not far from the room they said I'd be staying in for the night. I sit down hard on the edge of the closed toilet lid, breathing hard. Mere seconds and a voice in my head has reduced me back to a quivering mess. What a life.

I don't really remember the reaping. Ashara said I started screaming onstage and had to be dragged off early, just after they reaped Cassia. I can't for the life of me recall what was happening in my head. The whole thing is one giant, messy blur. All I do know is that the whole world knows about the crazy kid from Twelve who could have cried, or pouted, or tried to resist, but had a mental breakdown instead and doesn't even remember it.

There's a soft, barely there knock on the door. I ignore it, and soon enough I hear the faintest sounds of footsteps disappearing down the hallway. Probably Ashara, who tried and then realized that there was no point. She only has one tribute she can really work with, and it's certainly not me.

There are too many emotions spinning through my head, along with the voice. I'm having difficulty pin-pointing one that's stronger than any of the others. Fear. Sadness. Anger, a lot of it, but not about the situation. At myself. At whoever decided a voice in my head was a sick joke. Maybe that was the Capitol too. They're killing me anyway, so why not get some quality entertainment before they do it?

I know I need to have some sort of strategy going into this but it's impossible to come up with one on my own. Cassia's young, but she's not stupid enough to take me on as an ally. Will any of them be? The longer I focus on it, the more I'm certain that I'll be spending the next few weeks alone with only the voice in my head as company.

_That's what you've been doing for the past three years, sweetheart._

I blink, staring at myself in the mirror. I look like hell, all frantic and wide-eyed, my hair in disarray from my quick exit.

I don't know if I want to win. If I want to live.

A thought like that has never presented itself in my head, no matter how bad it got. But now that I'm almost certainly going to, is there really any point in fighting it? Is there any point in going back home just to sit by the creek where I let my siblings drown because I left them? Where the voice rose up from the water and landed itself in my head like it's been there forever?

The things I have to go back to don't outweigh what I'll have to live through if I survive. What right do I have to outlast someone who has more to go back to than me? I've taken enough life in my time.

I won't do it again.

* * *

**Amara Williams — 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

The mood is tense. Whatever image I had in my head before volunteering was shattered the moment I got on the train. The whole thing was shattered the second the rioting started in the Square.

I wasn't expecting to be one of three girls, but that I can adapt to. The utter chaos I can't. I'm not used to that, nor do I know how to anticipate it. I've been trained for all sorts of in the Games scenarios, so much so that that's all I'm equipped to handle.

Camilla's nice enough. I've spoken to her a few times in passing at the training center. I don't know what to make of Estelle just yet. She's obviously not trained like us and is utterly unprepared in more ways than one. The rest of the pack, however, looks ready to go. From watching the recaps just a short while ago, we'll be a force to be reckoned with. Maybe a tad angrier than I would have wanted, coming from the Two boy and the one from Four, but it's not like I can change their personalities overnight.

Besides that, I think we're good to go. All that's left is to figure out where Estelle fits in the puzzle, if she fits at all. Valiant may have won the fifth Quarter Quell but he's not a miracle worker. I can't help but feel bad for her. She didn't ask for any of this. There's a part of me that wants to stay by her side, protect her, even, but I know I can't. I'll get myself killed. Instead I'll keep whatever mask I've built and focus on winning for myself and only myself.

Ivory and Royal have demanded that we talk strategy, so the three of us are sitting at a small table in the corner, quickly joined by Camilla. I can see her eyes linger on the rather low neckline of my dress with slight bit of distaste in her eyes. It was more my mother's choice than mine, and I wasn't about to disagree with her. I know what angle I'll be playing, so I might as well start now. Let Camilla think what she wants.

"What about her?" I ask, nodding my head towards Estelle, who's sitting on the couch talking with Valiant. She looks as if she's about to have a fit and he looks beyond exasperated.

"No point in wasting our time," Ivory says simply. "You two are Career material, and she's not. Believe me, one of those boys will chase her away in no time. You won't have to worry about her."

I suppose that's true. Maybe it would be better to let her hold animosity towards them instead of us, anyway.

"Speaking of those boys, the Four boy will no doubt be the worse, but the Two boy might cause some conflict as well. My advice would be to get close with the two other girls, and the other boy from Four. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. You'll need the other two for the pack but for nothing more. Don't trust them," Royal says, looking between us.

Both Camilla and I nod. We're both perceptive enough to realize where the wrong allies will get us. Let the guys do the dirty work, if they want to. We'll come out on top in the end.

We don't talk for that much longer, only to discuss what we'll be doing in training, angles, and not much else. Royal and Camilla disappear down the hallway like old friends and Ivory excuses herself, saying something about leaving to find the Escort. That leaves me alone at the table, with the now quieter, hushed conversation going on in the background.

"You're welcome to join us, Amara."

I turn to face Valiant. He regards me for a second before turning back to the conversation. Trying to include me without making it awkward, it seems, but the look in Estelle's eyes is telling me she's not sure if she even wants me close. She probably feels utterly alone, at this point. Most outer-District kids won't even want to ally with her because of the District she's from, and without the pack, she has nobody.

Oh, why not.

I make my way over to the couch they've decided to occupy and place myself in the lounge chair next to them, crossing my legs. Might as well listen. The conversation between the two of them doesn't even falter, but Estelle's eyes slide to me, filled with mistrust and a certain amount of determination, but I know what fear looks like, and it's overwhelming.

I know personally that I'm not the ideal Career. I put on a mask of cold indifference and parade around in whatever outfit's thrown at me, but I'm different than the rest of them. When I put it like that, it makes me sound like I'm above them all, but the truth is, I'm not a heartless killer. I know what fear is because I've felt it. I already have anxiety about what I'm getting into, despite the fact that I'm more ready for this than I've ever been.

Estelle's eyes finally turn away from me, but there's a certain amount of clarity in them. She knows I'm not going to come after her just for being weak. She knows if I had a choice I'd be more willing to go off with her than the rest of them.

I can't do that, though. I can't throw away everything I've ever wanted and strived for just to protect one girl who's reaping caused the largest spread of violence District One has seen in years. My job is to stop things like that from happening, not fuel them into a wildfire that can't be stopped.

We're all gasoline, but she's tipped over and started burning things without realizing. And I want to join her, almost, but my heart doesn't get to make the decisions anymore.

Victor's don't get the luxury of such things.

* * *

Train Rides, part one finished! I'm really enjoying these. Honestly, writing directly from some of their POV's made me enjoy and appreciate them as characters much more than I originally planned. Might have to go change the death order around a bit now, hey? Not that I've finished it. Because I'm hugely indecisive and it keeps changing. But who knows, you might already be looking at our victor and not even know it. Glorious. As soon as I post the next chapter I'll probably get a poll up as well, so look out for that with the next update.

And thank you guys for all of the reviews last chapter! Seeing them made me very happy. Keep it up, hey? *nudge*

Until next time.


	9. Monsters

Train Rides, Part Two.

* * *

**Astrid Lucretius — 18 years  
District Four Female**

* * *

This train ride is one giant, awkward hellhole.

And that's putting it lightly.

Sheridan and I are friendly enough, talking strategy and all that fun stuff, but we're not foolish enough to actually be friends. We won't get that close. To put it as bluntly as possible, Hariwin is a dick. A gullible one, though. One perfect look in his direction or even the right words and I get a sly grin in response or he leans in a bit closer. He's vicious, possibly brutal, if what Sheridan told me is true. A guard dog. Someone they trained to fight and kill and have room for nothing else. He'll slaughter anything that steps into his path, so I'll stay behind him. Good to know.

I think the best part of all of this is Ross, though. He's nice. Too nice, almost; a bit quiet and defensive when someone shows interest in him, but once you get him talking, it's like you've been friends for years. Every time Hariwin opens his mouth it looks as if Ross would rather throw himself off the train than take the time to come up with a response. I like him, though. He won't stab any of us in the back unless he gets desperate, and he doesn't seem the type. He's probably the most normal, average one on this train. I almost feel bad for him.

It's a big crowd this year, eight of us, but somehow we manage to move around a few couches and chairs until they're situated into something resembling a circle. I lean into Hariwin's side, telling him to shove over a bit, and he looks as if he just got the best reward ever. God, this is too easy. Strong, but apparently an idiot.

Once we move over Ross drops down beside me, offering me an easy smile that I return. See, whenever Hariwin smiles at me I feel like someone dropped a bucket of worms down my shirt. Apparently he doesn't know how not to be some form of creepy or brutal around girls. Sheridan takes a smaller couch next to her own mentor and the other three arrange themselves across the rest.

"Alright, so let's get started," Amalia says, sitting forward. I think she took on Hariwin because she's the oldest and probably has the most patience. Anyone else would knock him out after five minutes. "Weapons, anyone?"

Sheridan and Ross are both spear people. I've seen Sheridan training and Ross told me approximately two and a half minutes after I started talking to him, not that I already didn't know.

"Trident," I say confidently when all of their eyes land on me. "Or anything, really, because I know they're not always there. I'm good with traps too. Nets and all that."

Everyone nods, seeming satisfied with my answer. I wonder if everything's going as smoothly over in One. I severely doubt it.

"Anything," Hariwin says, and leaves it at that.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Anything heavy. My bare hands. Doesn't matter."

The awkward hellhole is slowly resuming. And here I was, thinking we might be making some progress. I throw a glance in Sheridan's direction and she shrugs at me. Guess she wasn't lying about his sketchy late-night training, then.

"Once you're in the Capitol start going to One and Two immediately. Don't want until training," Teo says, meeting all of our eyes. We all nod in understanding. The quicker we can solidify the pack, the better, judging by the numbers. And then there's the question of the rogue volunteer from Six, but I don't think any of us have gotten quite that far yet.

"One's more important, because there's three of them," Costa explains. "But don't put the Two boy out just because he's the only one. He's strong and he's a number, so you'll need him. Especially if the One girl proves to be as useless as she looks."

Amalia throws a disapproving look in her direction, but it's true. There are variables we don't have control over, currently, so we need to take what we can get.

"What about the Six boy?" I ask, looking towards the four of them.

"Like we need him," Hariwin scoffs, borderline laughing, and locks eyes with me. His face falters a bit when he realizes I'm serious.

"See what he does in training. Depending, you guys can do what you see fit," Teo tells us, leaning back against the couch. Amalia launches into another topic, something about splitting up in training, and Ross leans the slightest bit closer to me.

"Think the Six boy is anymore bearable than him?" He whispers under his breath. I swallow down the laugh that builds up in my throat, looking down at my lap to hide my smile. I really do like Ross; he's proving more amusing by the second.

I really do think we can do this, despite all of the little problems I keep seeing. Four got lucky to have the most tributes this year, if I ignore how Hariwin's arm is slung over the back of the couch, just barely brushing my bare shoulders like we're out on some sort of sick date. If he gets too out of control, we can take care of him. Sheridan and Ross have no malice to them, but they'll do what they have to do to keep themselves alive. To win. And so will I, even if it means using someone who could very well be a monster to my advantage.

I glance over at Hariwin out of the corner of my eye. Almost instantly he's looking back, like he could tell I'd resume talking to him any second now. It really is a lot easier than I thought it would be, to get so close to someone that they don't think you have any ulterior motives; that the look in their eyes already says that they'd go to war with you, futile or not.

The smile that comes on my face is reflexive, plastic, and the look in Hariwin's eyes is one of victory. Like he already won.

Shame, really. Because he's my monster now. And they don't let the monsters win.

* * *

**Eitta Wills — 13 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

I spent most of my time hunched away in a corner, hoping no one talks to me. I tried to sidestep into my room, but Della insisted that I stay and wait for the food to come. Listen, if I didn't want to talk, is what she said. I like her, which I hope she knows.

At first I don't understand why they're letting Rayon mentor me. I don't pay much attention, if at all, to the three Victor's Eight has, but he's the youngest and very clearly the most fit. I don't understand why they tried to force me on him instead of Kiero, who at least has a chance. I don't. I knew that the second my name was called. I knew that before they even called my name; that if I ever got reaped I was doomed, no matter when the time came around.

But in my time spent in the corner, I begin to realize why they did it. He's not all there. You can see it in his eyes. Like to him the train's just another place that he's forced to stay; where ghosts only he can see roam the hallways. They ripped something out of him when he won and he never got it back. So maybe they were smart to let the crazy one mentor me. Della's kind, and smart, and she can give Kiero a chance. I won't rob him of that.

A few Avoxes trickle in, pushing ahead carts topped to the brim with all assortments of food. I uncurl myself from the corner, stretching my arms in front of me, and shuffle over to the table, dropping myself into the nearest chair and hoping no one will talk to me. I wouldn't know what to say. This situation we're in isn't exactly the best conversation starter and I'm certainly not confident enough in myself to come up with anything else. Besides, I haven't got anything good to say. I've got no sappy family life, I don't even have a token because I was forgotten about. Letting them talk is better.

Della sits next to me carefully, like she's afraid she'll startle me. Kiero sits across from us, staring at the food like he's at a loss for where to start. I watch as Rayon stares vacantly at the table and promptly removes himself from the room, disappearing down the hall. There's a resounding _thud_ as he slams the door to his room shut.

"Forgive me if this sounds cruel, but I almost wish he hadn't won," Della says quietly. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She looks sad. I guess the fact that she'd rather see someone dead because they'd be better off is, in a way.

"Is there anything actually wrong with him?" Kiero asks softly. He's still staring off down the hallway like he's waiting for Rayon to come back.

"Nothing official besides PTSD, but all of us go through that in our own ways. Trauma's a hell of a thing," Della explains.

They let me remain quiet when they move the conversation into something not nearly as morbid. Something about Eight, probably, but I don't even find myself listening, just picking things off various trays, trying to enjoy what I can while I'm still here. They've got some good food, I'll give them that.

Every once in a while, Kiero will glance over at me, like he's waiting for me to say something. He's quiet, but in a way completely different than me. He's confident in himself without it bordering into arrogance, but at the same time I can tell that he'd take the burden off of every reaped kid's shoulders and put it on his own if someone let him. Bear it so they don't have to.

He's not a fighter, that I can tell. He still, however, has a much better chance than me. I think, if I was another person entirely, we'd get along really well. I just hope he isn't taking it to heart that I'm doing my best to go incognito in the hideous floral pattern of this chair while he's sitting five feet away.

"I'm going to go check on him," Della says, wiping a napkin over her mouth and scooting her chair back. "You boys keep eating, I'll be back soon."

Without Della there to make conversation, the two of us lapse into silence, the only noise being the occasional scrape of a fork or knife across one of our plates.

"It's alright if you don't wanna talk. I'm just hoping it's not my fault."

I freeze and look up from my plate, meeting Kiero's eyes. He stares at me for a split second before going back to his own food. Apparently it's evident that if I'm stared at for more than a few seconds I'll sink into the chair entirely. I feel bad, though, because he's a good person, one who's not malicious or going to hurt anybody unless his life is hanging in the balance. He deserves better than me for a District partner.

"It's not," I say quietly, so much so that I'm surprised it came out at all. Kiero glances at me, a mild amount of shock spread across his face. He gives himself another second to just stare before he's looking away again. He's oddly perceptive, for me only speaking to him once. He looks mildly proud of himself, though, for getting those two words out of me. He should be. It's more than I usually say to someone I just met a few hours ago.

There's a lot I want to ask him. About his family, if he has one, about the bracelet on his wrist that has to be his token. If he's got things to go back to. If he thinks he can win, and if he wants to.

There's also a lot I want to tell him, but nothing I think I could.

* * *

**Quill Grove ****— 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

I don't quite know how both Elora and Arlo ended up in my room.

I also don't know why they're still here. Last time I pulled up the little clock mechanism it was around 1:30am, and it's been a fair bit since then. I just wanted to sleep, so I don't know how or why I ended up here, minus the getting reaped part. That I remember very clearly.

Somewhere between dinner and us all wandering off Elora followed me in here to ask me a question, sat down, and never got up. Arlo was there minutes later, like a moth to a flame because it's so damn evident that he tries not to get in the way but wants to be around someone who cares, probably because he's never had that. He's sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, now, Elora on a plush armchair, and I've claimed the area around my pillows like some sort of angry bird, willing everyone to please just go away and let me sleep.

Elora's either ignoring my wishes or oblivious to the fact that I want her to leave it all. I'm beginning to suspect the latter. Arlo would leave, if I asked him, but he's not going to while he's still got an active conversation going. I've barely said anything, and the attempts they've made at including me fizzle out the second they realize I'm not much of a talker.

Really, I think they'd leave if I wasn't even less intimidating than I usually am, a blanket drawn around my shoulders and all but drowning in a pile of ultra-plush pillows.

Arlo starts detailing some story or other about him and another kid almost burning down the orphanage when the ladies who ran it weren't there. Orphanage. Huh. Must have missed that part, because I never would have guessed it. Elora laughs at something he says and Arlo starts smiling, all teeth and no sadness. Seriously, how are they doing this?

"How are you guys remotely happy right now?"

I hadn't intended there to be any malice, but it probably came out that way. I'm honestly confused.

"Well, uh," Arlo starts, looking a little lost for words. That's a first.

"I spent too long turning my life around to not be happy. If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die. There's no stopping it," Elora says evenly, staring at me from her perch on the chair. That's probably the first remotely serious thing she's said, and not something I expected. For as care-free as she appears to be, she's tough, deep down. Arlo is too, and it's not hard to see why. If he grew up in the orphanage then he grew up faster than most kids did.

"Alright," Arlo interrupts. "Your turn to tell us a fun story, Quill."

I turn a blank-eyed stare on Arlo, pressing my lips together so hard they turn white. I just wants to sleep. Arlo starts to laugh, this time, and Elora quickly follows, like they're laughing at my inability to do anything other than scowl and stare at the wall. I doesn't have any fun stories, though. I didn't know fun things existed in Nine.

"I got bit by a poisonous snake once," I deadpan, finding the point on the wall I had been previously staring at. Both of them fall silent, until something thwacks me hard in the side of the head. Unprepared, I keel over quite comically, landing flat on my side with my legs still drawn up to my chest, listening to the chorus of Arlo's rather loud and undignified snorts echoing around the room. I glare at the offending pillow that knocked me sideways courtesy of Elora's apparently wicked arm strength.

"We said fun, asshole!" Elora chides me, waving another pillow in the air threateningly.

"I don't know, I thought that was pretty fun," I says simply. It wasn't fun, not at all, and I still feel like I owe Marcus some sort of debt for saving my ass that day, but now I'm not going to get to repay it. Elora rolls her eyes at me and lowers the pillow into her lap though, apparently deciding she's bugged me enough. Thank God. I'm still laying in the fetal position that my limbs fell in and honestly couldn't care less about resuming my former position. Really, if they'd shut up, I could probably go to sleep like this.

I'd never admit it, not for a million years, but it's almost nice, having them here. If I was alone like some of the tributes I'd have a lot of well-deserved alone time, but I get that enough at home. Maybe Elora's right. If I'm gonna die I might as well open my mouth and say what I have to say while I'm still here. Not now, though. Now it's too late and I still spent the past week working and I'm taking advantage of the most comfortable bed I've ever laid on in my entire life.

It's not ten minutes later when Arlo pokes a finger into my ribs, harder than he needed to.

"Seriously?" I grumble, refusing to lift my head up from the blanket. I squint at him with one half-open, blurry eye.

"We're leaving, we're gonna let you sleep. We'll find someone else to harass."

"Well thank God for that," I say under my breath, apparently a little louder than I thought, because seconds later a second pillow finds it's home directly on the back of my head. At least that one didn't hurt as much. I wave a vague goodbye gesture at them as I hear their footsteps fade away, the door clicking shut behind them. Their chatter outside my door quickly fades as they make their way away from my room and off to torture some other poor innocent soul. They'd probably spend the night together talking and fall asleep in the same room, I'd bet. Elora just because she won't make him leave and Arlo because he likes the company.

Now that they're gone, sleep is evading me. Of course it is. It's like there's a bright, buzzing light pressing against my eyelids, and it won't go away. Wait.

I lift my head, sending a pillow or two sliding away. They left the light on. The one right next to the door.

Assholes.

* * *

**Terron Calvert —18 years  
District Two Male**

* * *

I'm alone.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm alone.

The housing at the Academy means you're never alone. There's always someone in your room, or outside in the hallway, or going into training at some godawful hour in the morning with you. Not that I minded, much, because once you make friends there you can usually stick to them and only them, but the silence is strange to me. Eerie, almost. I'm not used to it. I'm used to someone yelling at me to do this again, or do that a different way, or someone yelling when they got hit a bit too hard.

I think, for the first time in my life, I'm a tad lonely. At this point I didn't even know the concept of loneliness existed, but here we are.

Cicely sent me off and told me to go to sleep, because we'd be arriving early in the morning, and in her words, I better not be a mess. It's her first year mentoring and I really don't think she expected me, a kid who left his home and sleeps in the center with a handful of orphans and runaways, to be the one she got, but now that I'm here she doesn't really have a choice. Someone almost beat me to the stage, though. He would have, if he hadn't crossed perfectly in front of Xanthos, who grabbed his arm impossibly hard and stopped him in his tracks, allowing me to slip right past. Xanthos had given me a positively sunny smile and a thumbs-up, nearly laughing at the guy squirming in his grip. If there's anything the night Academy teaches you, it's loyalty to the people you consider your friends.

I don't know how I'm supposed to sleep. I'm finally here. I've finally escaped.

I take to wandering around my room, picking things up and examining them. I think there are more shiny things in here than I've ever seen in my entire life, save for whatever the hell the Escort was wearing today. I peek into the bathroom, flicking the light on as I stick my head inside. Alright, they really don't cheap out on anything here, do they? It's like I can feel my eyebrows touching my hairline when I examine the shower. There are more buttons and dials than I've seen on any shower before, that's for sure. Showers in the academy lasted a rough three and a half minutes, if you were lucky. Any longer and you'd run into the cold water, or get your ass kicked for using up all the good stuff.

Hm, now I'm wondering. Would anyone yell at me for singing at the top of my lungs in there? No one but Cicely, I think, who would probably hear me from the other end of the train and cuff me upside the head for not sleeping. Guess I'm saving that for the Capitol, then. Beside, they'll applaud me for it. I sound like a goddamn angel. It's about time someone appreciated it.

There's not much else to look at, really. I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. That lasted all of two minutes, and I'm still not planning on sleeping anytime soon. The pictures in here are ugly as all hell anyway, and I really don't want to spend any more time than I have to looking at them.

It would be nice to have someone here with me, I think, but not to be friends with. I'm already bored. There's no one to terrorize, no one to show up, no one to intimidate. For all I know I'm already on the outskirts of the pack. There's really nothing I can do about it if the decision's already been made, but hopefully the rest of them are smart enough not to do that. I'll kill them all without blinking.

If they think I'm going to cooperate and be the perfect little ally just because I'm alone, they're more wrong than I thought. I learned a long time ago that taking orders doesn't get you anywhere. Up to this point every decision I've made has been because of myself, not someone else. Being nice and proper and moral doesn't get you anywhere, especially here. It sure as hell didn't get me anywhere when my father was beating the shit out of me and my mother sat upstairs, ignoring it and probably drunk half out of her mind.

That night, the last night I spent at home, it motivates me more than I'd care to think about. I left home at nine and didn't look back, because the Academy took me in and they raised me in all sense of the word. When I come back, maybe I'll finally be able to look my parent's in the eye and forgive them - maybe they'll finally care enough to come looking. It's a nice thing to think about, if a bit delusional.

I need to stop thinking about that, though. They might have started the fire that got me here but I've built and maintained the damn thing for nine years. I've had bones broken and bled and starved just to be here. I might have started out a scared, pathetic kid but I'm not anymore. What I do need to think about is people like Valora, who went to that Academy because she had nothing else and had her opportunity to win pulled out from under her by some arrogant, self-entitled asshole. Looking at her hurts sometimes, even though we're friends, even though she's assisted in my training for the past two years. If I had let someone take this from me, I'd be her right now. Disappointed and bitter and not understanding why the world would dare to take away the only thing I had.

That's why I'm here for myself. Everyone will know that the second they meet me, because they aren't for a damn second going to try and stop me from getting what I want. People have been trying to get in my way for too long.

* * *

We are done the pre-Capitol chapters! *shoots confetti cannon*

As always, thanks to everyone that has reviewed so far. I love you all for it. From here on out, the format will be a bit different. There will be two chapters of chariots with three POVs each, three chapters of training with four POVs each, and interview sessions exactly like the chariots. This is mostly because I do believe training's the biggest part, especially because of all the interactions and alliances being formed. It's one of my favourite parts to write, either way. If your character doesn't get their own POV in training they will be mentioned or heavily involved in others, so don't stress about that!

Poll's up on my profile! Try not to vote for just your own; I'm giving you six choices for a reason. I'm looking forward to getting all of these guys in the same room. So again, until next time, and please, pray for everyone's sanity once they do end up in the same room.


	10. Ordinary People

Chariots, Part One.

* * *

**Gera Castprince — 16 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

I wish they would just let me go. And, just my luck, the prep team is annoyingly loud. Louder than they need to be, because this room is so tiny I feel like I'm suffocating, and their hands on my face or touching my hair or adjusting my accessories really aren't helping.

I don't know where my stylist wandered off to. I already forget her name.

I also don't know where the voice went, or if it's just so loud in here that it's drowning it out. Either way, I'm grateful for it.

I'm pretty sure I'm covered in fake coal dust right now. That or eyeshadow, because the longer I stare at my powdered hands, I'm beginning to see very real sparkles. Maybe that's the closest thing they had. It's the same thing we are every year, shocker. But it's better than being a half-naked coal miner. At least the Capitol has some dignity on their part - they probably would have done exactly that to me, if I was alone, but they've got Cassia to match me with. Even the Capitol wouldn't do that, I don't think, or risk someone getting very angry.

One of the assistants is staring at me, a make-up brush halfway between my face and where she's standing.

"Uh, what," I deadpan. Even when I'm not really spacing out, I'm still freaking them out, I think. I'm wondering if they think I'm going to snap all of a sudden and destroy the room with them in it, even though I'm not possibly capable of destruction of that magnitude. Satisfied that I seem to be with her still, the assistant lowers the brush to my face, spreading another thin layer of black dust over my face. I scrunch up my face. It even smells awful.

Simultaneously, the three of them all step back from me, just as my stylist decides to make her reappearance. She nods once in satisfaction, barks something at the little trio, and they all but scamper from the room, like they've got a hive mind. They probably do. Their hair is all some shade of pastel, at least, so they look as if they could be related in some way.

I stand up at her request, but even she looks reluctant to be alone with me. They all watched the reapings, and Ashara probably warned them ahead of time. That, or Lathum, who keeps himself and his blue hair at a minimum of fifteen feet away from me ever since I ran out from the dining cart on the train. Within seconds, she's evidently satisfied with how I look and ushers me out the door and into the elevator. I expect her to step in with me but she presses a button and then exits, leaving me alone in the elevator with a cloud of fake coal dust.

So, apparently Lathum also told her I have the plague.

Ever since that night on the train, I've been alright, I think. That's really the only thought I get, though, before the elevator doors open and I'm stepping into a hangar-sized room, filled with twelve chariots and horses of varying degrees. Some of the chariots had to be redesigned to accommodate more people, but Twelve's look the same as ever.

I'm one of the first ones out. No real surprise there, I couldn't have been getting ready for longer than a half hour. The only other two people out are the Ten girl and the one Four boy, the nicer one, I think. Within a minute he hops down out of his own chariot and crosses over to hers, holding out a hand to introduce himself. Well that's weird. Usually the Careers stick together, which means there's something dysfunctional going on there, or he wouldn't be involving himself with anybody else. That or he's just Mr. Friendly.

Slowly, over the next half hour, people begin to trickle out of the elevators. The boys quicker than the girls, usually. The two tall, athletic One girls come out looking like visions, covered in diamonds and lace. The smaller one follows behind them, smiling widely and looking like she hasn't a care in the world. Huh. When she got reaped she looked like she was about to cry. Good on her for the personality switch.

Soon enough, Cassia exits the elevator and comes over to me. She's the only one so far, and that's only because she's forced to, I'd bet. She looks better than me. All of her clothes, including the baggy black cargo pants and the matching jacket, seem to fit her better. The dust smeared on her face looks more deliberate, like they tried to make her look older. More intimidating, maybe, but I don't think anyone's going to get that vibe. There's enough strength going on in this room that no one will even throw a second look in her direction, make-up or not.

The dark-haired Four girl and the other boy come out together, her arm linked through his like they're a couple, or something, but the look on her face says otherwise. Not that he'd notice, because he probably can't see her face through the width of his biceps. I make a mental note to stay as far away from that situation as possible. The rest of the Career group looks on as well, some with varying degrees of _oh shit_ written across their faces, and some looking simply exasperated.

I barely notice when Cassia swings herself up into the chariot next to me without a word. She's not comfortable with me, exactly, but she's not the type to turn tail and run. I'm glad. I think today I feel good enough to do this. To stand up tall and wave and hopefully re-build some of the reputation that I knocked to the ground the second I got reaped.

There's a little alarm-like sound and the Avoxes and most of the officials scatter from the room. Guess it's time then. I smooth my hands down over my jacket, readjusting my feet into the proper position so I don't fall when we get moving. I can do this.

_Don't forget to smile, darling._

I freeze. No. Not now. It had disappeared, for a short time. Why was it back now? I lock my hands into fist, trying not to scream. Cassia glances at me from the corner of her eye, and then at the Eleven chariot in front of us, like she's going to go join the boy in that one.

_Only trying to help._

_You're not helping_, I all but scream in my head._ Stop, please just stop!_

Like it's actually listening to me, it fades away, retreating back into whatever corner of my mind it goes to when it decides to be quiet. But now I'm shaking. There are tears burning in the corner of my eyes. That feeling I had on the train is back, the one that's telling me there's no point in living anyway, so why should I even try. It's like a poison that I keep thinking I find an antidote to, only to find out it's the wrong one, and we have to go back to the drawing board. I just keep reverting back to the same state.

The state that I'm in isn't living, by any standard. I think the best part of me died with my siblings.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels ****— 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

The flowing, blue-green outfit I'm in isn't exactly manly, nor does it do anything to make me feel better about the fact that I'm not even trusted to undress myself. I know they're not doing any harm, and that they definitely don't mean any, but they could have chosen a more ... I don't know, gender neutral thing? The girls probably look great, but I look a tad ridiculous. The only satisfaction I am getting out of this situation is that Hariwin probably looks worse and he'll be furious about it, so there's that.

My stylist is staring at me, head tilted. I give him my best smile and he scowls. Nevermind.

"We need to change it. All of it."

"I'm good with that," I say a little too quickly. He glares at me, but leaves the room. Now my prep team is standing, arms half raised and in a general state of disarray and confusion without the head of operation. He returns not a minute later with a handful of palettes and clothing and a pair of shoes thrown precariously over his shoulder.

"Figured it out," he explains through the brush between his teeth. "Okay, so now—"

I let myself zone out as completely re-do everything they'd started on. The new outfit is heavier but doesn't look nearly as bad. I think it's supposed to be some sort of shell or scale-ish armor, like some sort of water God. It doesn't look half bad. There's so much gel in my hair I'm convinced I'll never get it out, but this time the process is extraordinary shorter and there's not as much make-up involved. When I start squirming they threaten me with coloured contacts, so I shut up and let them do their job.

The ride down is filled with pairs of hands making the last finishing touches. Their eagerness and pace must mean I'm late, or at least close to it. I'm prepared to run out the door and to the chariot have to, scaly armor be damned.

The room is empty.

I stand there, blinking like an idiot. Definitely not late. Most definitely early. Really early. Why were they in such a big hurry then? I turn to look back at them but they've already disappeared off to the other side of the room, looking to converse with the few officials gathered there. So I guess I'm on my own, then.

I spend my time sitting on the edge of my chariot, letting my feet brush against the ground. Every time the elevator dings I turn my head, hoping to see someone come out. No such luck. More officials, or Avoxes coming to tend to the horses, but no one I'm supposed to talk to. I'm contemplating laying down when someone steps out of the elevator. The girl from Ten, if the cowboy hat is anything to go off of. The outer-Districts are almost always stuck with the same thing. It's hard not to feel bad.

I let her cross over to her own spot before I hope out of mine, striding towards her in what I hope is a non-threatening way. When she spots me, she tenses a bit, but forces the slightest smile on her face.

"Uh, hi?" She tries, looking more confused than welcoming. I hold out my hand to her, reaching it upwards to reach over the edge of the chariot to her.

"I'm Ross. Hi."

She relaxes a bit and takes my hand, seeming to realize that I'm not there to terrorize her.

"Any reason you're over here?"

"Bored, honestly," I admit. "But I thought I would talk to as many people as I can. Not a bad thing, right?"

She nods. "Fair enough. I'm Abigail. Abbie's fine, though."

I smile, grateful for the response. "Well it's nice to meet you."

She stares at me impassively, leaning against the side of her chariot, cupping her chin in her hands.

"I'm not usually the most pessimistic, but I don't know if it's nice, really. I mean—"

"Yeah, I get it. Sorry. Shouldn't have said it like that," I interrupt. I guess I hadn't though about it from her point of view. She's not trained. Half of the people here are bigger than her in some form. She's probably terrified, deep down. Sure, I have my reservations, but at least I know what the hell I'm doing. At least I didn't just get thrown on stage like I won a contest with no warning.

"Well if you need any help or anything, just ask."

She blinks owlishly at me, apparently in a fair bit of shock. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not," I shrug. "If it'd make you feel better."

"Aren't you supposed to like, not help the competition?" She asks me, one eyebrow raised. Her cowboy hat is tipping off one side of her head. She's cute, which I shouldn't be thinking, and honestly one of the only people I feel semi-comfortable talking to so far. Hariwin scares me. So does Sheridan, in a different way, but she's nice to me, at least. Astrid is great to talk to, but ever since she's plastered herself all over Hariwin's side like a patch of velcro, I try to avoid her.

"Probably. But I like helping, so."

"Fatal flaw of yours, I can see," she teases, leaning over to poke me in the shoulder. I find myself smiling easier than I thought I could. Maybe being here has beaten the cautious side out of me entirely. Besides, it's not like I trust Abigail, she's just nice to talk to. Someone I could see myself being friends with, if we weren't here.

I take a second to glance around. While we've been talking, the Twelve girl, the batshit one, as Hariwin's labelled her, has come out and is perched on the edge of her chariot. The elevator dings open and a boy who might be a few inches shorter than me comes walking towards us, looking unbelievably apprehensive at the fact that I'm standing there at all.

"Well, that's my partner," Abbie says. Immediately after that the One girls come striding out, like some sort of shimmering wave, talking between themselves while the smaller one trails along behind them.

"I should probably go talk to them, so," I explain. The one's already glancing over, like she's wondering what the hell I've got going on in my head. Oh well, more friends for me. "Training, though?"

Abbie smiles at me. "Yeah, training."

I wave a goodbye and start off towards my chariot, turning back at the last second. "Tell him I said hi!" I say, gesturing towards her District partner, who's only halfway there. He startles, glancing towards me like he didn't quite catch what I said, but Abigail laughs.

"Will do!"

I actually feel good about this. For all of my nervousness and the scared look in my mother's eyes that I might not be coming back, with every move I make, the farther I think I could go. I think I'm underestimated, because I'm just there. Average. I'm not inhumanely strong, or lethal, but I don't think I need to be. I'm not going to get anywhere by intimidating people.

I'm playing this different, but I'm happy with it. I'm happy with my decisions.

* * *

**Acacia Wilson — 16 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

This is absolutely unbelievable.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to be. At least if I was a tree, I'd know it. I think I'm supposed to be some sort of fairy that crawled out of a tree, or something, but I don't have wings or anything. What I do have is thin, paper-like tendrils of green flowing down from my arms, shoulders, waist, everything. There are little fake, plastic leaves sewn in everywhere. They've even got one taped at each corner of my eye. I've also decided that while the dark, evergreen nail polish I've got on does look good, it's irritating as all hell. The second I tried to pick it off I got a light slap on the wrist and high-pitched instructions about what not to do.

Which was everything but sit still and let them work.

I asked them to leave the door open, and even though they looked confused, they eventually complied. If I need to change, or something, I can do so out of range of the door, so it doesn't really matter. This way, though, I have things to look at. Colourful hats and unbelievably tall stilettos, people of all sorts of caliber as they wander past my doorway. The bustle is almost alien to me, but it's a weird and much appreciated distraction.

Porter wanders past my door not ten minutes later, in an outfit identical to mine. I can't stop the hideous snort that works it's way out of my mouth. He's really not suited to the tight jumpsuit thing we've got on, and he knows it. He turns to look at me through the doorway, making a slitting motion across his throat and desperate, pleading eyes as he's dragged away by two twin-like blue-skinned women. Out of the corner of my eye I see the barest of smiles on my stylist's rather stoic face. At least he's glad I'm having fun.

Initially I was as uncooperative as possible. One of the girls threatened to restrain me when they took wax to my arms if I didn't shut up and sit still. Eventually I resigned myself to the fact that if I let them do whatever the hell they think styling is, I'll be set free. Of course I'll be back here in a few days for the interviews, but that shouldn't be nearly as mortifying.

I hope.

Eventually they wrangle Finnea into my room and pull me up until I'm shoulder to shoulder with her, examining the two of us together. She's only an inch or two taller than me, and I'm pretty damn short. Small or not, I don't think we look terrible. Definitely one of the more confusing Seven costumes, but definitely not the worst looking. I'd bet Porter would disagree, but him and his jumpsuit will survive the night.

She's taken out as quietly as she came out for some finishing touches or others. My stylist, Viane, shoos the prep team from the room, dead-set on doing the last few things on his own. He touches a powdery brush to my nose, sending up a cloud of some sort of bronzer.

"No scrunching," he says, tapping my nose when I attempt to glance down at myself, grimacing at the flecks settling on my face.

I don't mind him, actually. I was half convinced on some level that I hated all Capitol people. Our Escort is surprisingly quick-witted and fun to talk with. She's taken to harassing Porter specifically because she knows he doesn't like her. Viane's quieter than I expected, but really nice. The prep team I could do without, but I'll take what I can get. I thought the hatred I had brewing inside me would only be worse once I got here and didn't have Ivy to hold me back from doing something stupid.

The goodbyes were kind of disastrous. Ivy cried a lot. Dad had to be escorted in by Peacekeepers, who refused to leave the room once they delivered him. He still had the blur of a hangover in his eyes, and I refused to hug him. I also told Ivy to get away from him, if I didn't come back. I didn't want her risking his wrath if I didn't. He was bad enough after mom.

"Are you alright, dear?" Viane asks me quietly. He's back to contouring some shadow or other along my cheekbones.

"Yeah," I lie easily. I really need to stop thinking about all of that stuff and keep out of my own head. I have bigger fish to fry. Literally fry, if it comes to that, but I'm thinking it won't. Hopefully I'll be able to get my hands on some sort of weapon. Hell, I'd settle for a stick, if it would keep someone from killing me.

Viane doesn't look convinced but lets me wallow by myself, changing the palette in his hand to some tube of something. I don't even want to know.

I do know that Porter will be a good ally. He's strong. Maybe not the best listener, but we get along. I didn't think I would trust someone so easily, but he comes as he is. He's not hiding anything he is for the sake of playing the game. Half of the other tributes already come off as too quiet, or too stupid, or too out of my range. I won't go near the Careers. They don't scare me, but there's no way in hell.

I hope in training I can show them up, in some small way. I'm no knife-throwing expert, but I have an idea. Deverin told me to work on it. Hiding my meager skills won't get me anywhere, and if I show them off, the worst I get is a target on my back. The thing is, there already is one. People like the hulking beast from Four won't forget about me because I'm quiet. So why not be as loud as possible, in whatever way I can?

I find myself smiling without even realizing it. Viane steps back from me, head tipped ever so slightly to the side, before smiling back at me.

"That's better. Don't know what you thought about, but keep thinking."

I nod vigorously. I don't do terror well. That, and crying. I'm no princess locked in a tower begging for my life, begging for someone to come and save me. I might look it, but that only makes it better. Let them think what they want. That way it'll be ten times more satisfying to see the looks on their faces when an outer-District kid can actually do something other than wait for something to kill them.

"Showtime?" I ask Viane, rising from my chair. He nods, still smiling around the edges, an ounce of happiness in his eyes that I haven't seen there yet.

"Showtime."

* * *

**I'm leaving the poll up until the next update because not that many people voted on it. So go do that now if you haven't. **

Chariots, yeah. I don't really know what else to say. Chapter's a bit shorter, but that's because I axed out one of the POVs, so. Hopefully it was still enjoyable! The new interactions are certainly fun to play with. One more chariot chapter and then we're getting to training, which I think will be my favourite part. I'll start updating alliances on the blog now, probably, and as we go through training. Or I just might wait until after so I don't have to change it a million and a half times. We'll see.

Anyway, let me know what you thought, and thanks to everyone for their feedback as always!

Until next time.


	11. On a Downward Spiral

Chariots, Part Two.

* * *

**Lilith Ashwood — 15 years  
District Three Female**

* * *

The Escort's name is Reznor, not Razor, and he won't leave me the hell alone.

Half the time he's in the room, trying to make tweaks and touching my hair and commenting on the sour mood that I have apparently written clear as daylight across my face. When he's not in here he's out in the hallway gossiping, or leaning in the doorway, or asking Aukai why we couldn't have gotten a happier, more upbeat tribute, and then pretending he's trying to be quiet when he says that. That, or he forgot that I have ears and am not in fact deaf.

My Stylist's name is Karine. I think. She talks a lot and she's got a mess of blue-green curls arranged at the top of her head. She keeps putting things in the bun; pins, clips, anything that she doesn't have a hand for, and takes them out when she's ready to use them. It's weird, but effective, I guess, especially because one of the prep team members nearly knocked over the table onto me in his haste to get something for her at the beginning.

In one of the intervals that Reznor's in here, he tells me that the kid's nineteen, and it's his first year working here. That's the only useful piece of information he's supplied so far.

I don't know what he's got to be so nervous about. He's not the one who's going to get murdered.

I'm bitter. Really bitter, and everyone knows it. I'm not doing anything to make it a secret. Aukai and I spent half the night talking about how I could try to look less unimpressed during the chariot rides and later on in the interviews. Make friends in training, if I can. I don't know if any of those things are more likely to happen than another, but all of those prospects are looking bleak as of now.

"Hey, kid, you've got pretty eyes. Don't know if you're listening, though."

I snap my eyes up to Karine, who's staring at me with a faint shadow of amusement on her face.

"You alright there?"

"Uh, yeah, sorry," I blurt out. She nods and goes back to working some kind of gold wiring into my hair.

"And thanks," I tack on as an afterthought. I find myself smiling a little. It's nice to know that at least someone looks at me as more than someone who's being shipped off for entertainment. And maybe it's bad, that she's looking at me just a little too closely to forget once I die, but it's nice.

"Oh my goodness, she does smile!" One of the team says enthusiastically, her chalky white make-up almost seeming to brighten into something warmer at my reaction. I find myself rolling my eyes at that and the new kid, who had been looking on from the side, lets out a little laugh, seeming to relax a little. I find the slightest bit of bitterness sliding away, relishing in these few seconds. I can make people happy, make them care that I'm here. It's really not that hard, actually. Maybe they are a little bit more oblivious, or just fitting that Capitol-typical dumbass look, but sitting here, I don't hate them. And sure, maybe it's just these three, because Reznor's still annoying as all hell, but yesterday I thought I hated all of them.

It scares me, for a second, how quickly that turned around. They are helping, though, in small ways. When I do chance a look in the mirror I actually look alright. I've got a crown of golden and silver wires settled lightly on my head, with little gears and circuit board pieces in weird patterns across my body like some sort of futuristic queen. They're participating in this whole thing, spurring it on, but they really don't think they're doing any harm.

How can I hate people who don't even realize what they're doing?

Aukai leans in through the doorway, taking up as much room as possible in the entrance when Reznor tries to slip past him. I smile gratefully, and Reznor throws an exasperated look over his shoulder at me before sweeping back into the hallway, long coat drifting behind him.

"Don't mind him, he does it every year," Aukai explains, staring after him, ducking back through the door when a hoard of people almost trample him in their haste to get wherever they're going.

"Trying to annoy us to death before it actually happens," I mutter under my breath. Karine hits me lightly on the shoulder with a wire coil.

"Don't think like that."

"Sorry."

Since when do I apologize so much?

Since when do I ever apologize, actually. It's startling.

"She looks good, Karine," Aukai comments, squinting at the various gadgets on my clothing. "Better than mine, at any rate."

"I wish I was alive to see that," I say thoughtfully. I've never even seen his Games, come to think of it. This time it's Aukai that nudges me, shaking his head.

"Better that you didn't. It was horrifying."

"I've got pictures somewhere, sweetheart. I'll show you later," Karine whispers, pulling yet another thing out of her hair. The collection she had going on has significantly decreased in the past few minutes, I can't help but notice. Aukai throws her a half-hearted glare, but turns to leave, resting one of his hands on the edge of the door and peeking in at the last second.

"Twenty minutes until we're out!"

"He says that like we don't know," the boy says softly. He adjusts the crown on my head, stepping back for a second to examine the placement, and then moves it again, tilting his head thoughtfully. He's quiet, but surprisingly perceptive, even if he did almost knock over a table. If it wasn't for the pale, mint green hair and the silver eyes, I'd say we're quite similar. I doubt he'd think so.

"Hey, what's your name?" I ask him, peering up through the massive eyelashes they stuck on me. He goes tense for a second, turning to brush some hair over my shoulder, adjusting a strap as he does so.

"Kipling. It's a mouthful. Kip is fine, though."

"Well if you get a nickname I'm Lilly, then."

Karine and the other two look bemused by the fact that, evidently, the two quietest ones in the room are the ones choosing to converse. I don't really know why I asked him his name, honestly. The other two won't stop chattering for a minute, so I don't think I'm ready to crack that code quite yet. It almost feels wrong not to know them. They're trying to help, in whatever weird way they can.

Once I'm dead I don't think many people will remember me. My mother, because I'm all she has. Aukai, I think, remembers the names of every kid who's ever died on his watch. There's a look in his eyes that says he can't run from them. That he blames himself. Maybe I'll work on getting him to stop that before I go off. I doubt Karine and Kip will remember me for long, but they'll try with everything they have. Things here blur together after a while. Colours, people, deaths. There's been so much of all of it I'm having trouble keeping it straight.

If they're going to remember me, I'll remember them. For as long as I can, anyway. I don't have much time left.

And maybe, a few years down the road, or twenty or thirty, someone will remember and it'll be enough. I mean, I doubt it. But I think if I said otherwise, Karine would hit me again.

* * *

**Eitta Wills — 13 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

I'm quite literally sitting in a closet and I refuse to come out.

They realized I wasn't going to talk, or move, or do much of anything about five minutes after they met me. Della tried to stay with me, for a bit, because I'm alright with her around, but they shooed her out not long after. When I refused to unclamp my arms from around my sides they agreed to let me change into the outfit myself.

I do really think this is a closet, which means that every other tribute is getting dressed with the help of four or more people. I'm not technically supposed to be in here, I don't think, but now that I am I have no interest in coming out. I locked the door after the first time they asked me if I was done and it's been that way ever since. They're starting to get angry. More than one of them's pacing; I don't think they can find Della.

I'm supposed to be out there, but if I have go get onto a chariot in front of thousands of people I'll either throw up, start crying, or both. Even if I could stop myself from doing those things no one would care. I've got no hope. I'm just waiting to die and praying that it's quick and mostly painless.

There's more knocking on the door, followed by more chattering.

"You gonna come out now?"

I don't respond. I don't know why they're bothering; I haven't said anything to them since I've come in here. By now they're probably trying to find something to break down the door with, but I doubt any of them would be strong enough to actually do it.

Maybe I could just skip the chariots altogether. I mean, I don't think they would let me, but it's a nice thought. They'll probably get security to drag me out if they have to, and that won't help my anxiety at all.

There's a brief pause of silence and the sounds of more footsteps. Guess it's happening sooner than I thought it was going to. Quiet, rushed arguing breaks out, and there's the distinct sound of several people just outside the door. Maybe I should move.

I can't quite make out what any of them are saying, but there are familiar voices mixed in with their Capitol accents. That's definitely Della. For a second I think I can even hear Kiero, talking in a calm, level-headed manner. Trying to reason with them to leave me alone for a few moments. Eventually I hear footsteps retreat from the room, and then there's a soft, barely there rapping on my door.

"Hey, Eitta?"

Definitely Kiero.

"We know you don't want to come out, but it's just us two in here now," Della chimes in. I can almost hear the hopefulness in her voice.

I rise out of my crouched position on the tile, creeping up to the edge of the door. I turn the lock as quietly as possible and open the door a crack, peeking out. Kiero's standing about a foot away from the door, eyebrows raised as I glance around the room. Della's standing just behind him. The rest of them are gone. I open the door the slightest bit wider and slip out, closing it silently behind me.

"I know it's overwhelming, and the chariots are going to be even harder, but we don't really have a choice, dear," Della says sympathetically, reaching out to place a gentle hand on my shoulder. I nod slightly, avoiding her eyes. I still don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm terrified and I don't even know how to tell them that they're the only two people I can stand being around without wanting to run.

Della makes Kiero go first, presumably to stop whatever shrieking Capitolite who runs across us next from terrifying me head-on. Her hand is soft in-between my shoulder blades, pushing me forward, and I settle my eyes on the patchwork pattern of the coat Kiero has on. That was apparently the best they could come up with, so now we're in a matching pair of pants and shirts that really don't match at all. It all looks like a quilt someone's grandma made for them when they were five; a variety of patterns and colours all mashed together.

"I'm not going to take you guys any further," Della says, stopping us at the elevator. "You got this?"

She looks at Kiero when she says it. She doesn't trust me to do much else other than stand still and not talk, or do much of anything, really, but she still knows I'm capable enough to run from him if I really wanted to. Now that I'm out in the open, though, I don't think I would chance it. Too many people. Too many opportunities to get lost. He nods, though, and she gives me one last calm, reassuring smile, before disappearing down the opposite hallway.

There are two other people in the elevator when we get on; the Nine girl and the small girl from Twelve. Instantly the former waves at the two of us, smiling along with it.

"Elora, District Nine."

"Kiero, and this is Eitta."

I throw the smallest of grateful glances in his direction. Elora's eye skate over me, settling on me for longer than I'd like.

"Not a talker?" She asks, tilting her head. I stare back at her. The Twelve girl, yet to say a word, glances between us in silence. Finally I shake my head the slightest bit, returning my eyes to my shoes. I can tell she wants to say more, or ask more, but I'm uncomfortable enough already. Elora resumes talking to Kiero, saving me from having to mortify myself any more than what's already transpired.

I tense up again when the elevators dings open not ten seconds later, letting in the Six boy. We all go silent, watching as he walks through the doors. Instantly Elora scoots over, patting the wall beside her with a smile, saving us from all gawking at him like idiots, wondering why the hell anyone would want to volunteer for this. He leans against the wall next to her and shoves his hands in his pockets. I don't think he's much of a talker either, but still shows more personality than I did when Elora introduces all of us to him, something like calm confidence radiating off of him.

I wish I could be like that. I really do. I've been a background object my entire life, and I'd be more than happy to let the floor swallow me whole or sit down in a corner of the chariot when we roll out. I barely even notice the Two boy get in, but I slide over enough that I'm practically entirely behind Kiero.

Certain people are made for this. Not to fight, or anything, but to have a chance. Smile and be positive like Elora, have some amount of confidence in themselves like Kiero and the Six boy, Spens. I don't know how they manage it. I don't know how the girl from Twelve who's name I've already forgotten hasn't cried, or the boy from Two who's looking at all us evenly, knowing fully well that he'd happily kill all of us right now if someone let him.

For a long time ago I've been fine with being overlooked, with being forgotten about. But right now it feels lonelier than ever.

* * *

**Amara Williams — 17 years**  
**District One Female**

* * *

The chariots go about as well as I expected.

Really, they didn't go bad by anyone's standards. The catcalls and the whistles from both the majority of the men and even some of the women were interesting, to say the least. It's the angle I'm playing. It's the image I've been giving people for as long as I can remember, so it's nothing new. Still though, it's unsettling to see how little they care for me as a person. As long as I'm attractive and wearing a minimal about of clothing, they could care less about my personality.

There's still tons of screaming and cheering going on in the background. The President already gave her speech, not that it mattered, because I don't think half of the other tributes we're listening anyway. Estelle certainly wasn't. She was wedged between Camilla and I, playing with the ends of her outfit. They went younger with her, trying to appeal to her childish nature. Meanwhile I'm dressed in something that quite literally only covers the important parts with thick, heavy clusters of diamonds and glitter. Camilla's in something similar, but I think she must have snapped at them to, you know, not do that. I tried that angle but they ignored me after a few seconds. Apparently you lose all viable opinions here.

Valiant takes my hand and helps me down from the chariot. He tries the same with Estelle, who side-steps and hops down herself, not too gracefully. I feel like she's trying to fit in with us but doesn't quite know how to do it. She sticks close enough that she knows she's on the outskirts, but doesn't get too involved to actually make us like her. I don't know what her goals are. I don't think anybody does.

There are swarms of people around; camera crews and prep teams and other tributes, all milling around in a general state of disarray and chaos.

"Uh hey, Amara?"

I turn towards the voice, looking directly at Ross, who's appeared behind me in a matter of seconds. We talked to him a bit earlier on, and by talked Camilla and I did most of that, and Estelle stared at him vacantly, occasionally interjecting with some snappy, nonsense comment. Behind him are the two Four girls. The other guy is nowhere to be seen.

"This is Sheridan and Astrid," he says, pointing in turn. Sheridan leans forward, shaking my hand warmly, her posture calm and refined, and moves on to Camilla. Astrid does the same, but by the time they get to Estelle, she's standing back, eyes mistrustful. She takes their hands warily, like she's afraid they're going to bite her. I just don't understand. She's trying to make allies, not scare them off.

"So, we're all good?" Camilla asks, looking at the circle of them. I notice she doesn't make eye contact with Estelle. We all nod, though, looking around in affirmation. Seems like we are, then.

"Where's Hariwin? And Terron's his name, right?" Sheridan questions, standing up a bit taller like she's trying to find them in the crowd. Neither of them are small by any means, so I have no idea why they're not around.

Yelling breaks out about thirty feet away, rising in volume as it continues.

"Found Hariwin," Astrid pipes up. Ross groans and drags a hand across his face. Sheridan sighs deeply, obviously composing herself, before taking off towards the noise. He tromps of after her, face set in some amount of determination.

"Okay, call me interested," Camilla says, waving at Astrid and I as she takes off after the pair. I silently wish her good luck. From the looks of it, Hariwin's getting into it with the red-haired Seven girl, a smug smirk on his face. It was only a moment of time before the Seven guy stepped in, and now the volunteer is shoving his way in-between them, trying to act as some sort of stopping barrier. I'm just hoping no one starts throwing punches.

When I look back over my shoulder, Estelle's gone. That was quick. Now I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with Astrid, who's looking towards the commotion in silence.

"Not interested in intervening?" I ask her quietly. Normally I would, but not this. I'm not supposed to help people in here.

"Nah, I've got enough on my plate with him," she says casually, crossing her arms over her scaly outfit.

"Do I wanna know?"

"He's unstable at best, straight up crazy at worst," she tells me calmly. "And I've got him wrapped around my little finger. It's nauseating, but useful."

I don't really know what to say in response to that. I can flirt with whoever I want and do whatever I want with people, but manipulation has never been my strong suit. Seduction, sure, but the physical type. Every time I've tried some ounce of kindness or caring has bled into my voice and it backfires. That's what the mask is for. No one knows who you really are if you won't let them in.

"Nice outfit, by the way," Astrid says, looking me up and down before settling back on the chaos. I can't help the slight sigh that escapes, looking down at my outfit.

"I was serious. Not trying to be an ass, or anything."

"I know," I say. "It's just ... sometimes I wish it didn't have to be like this, that I didn't have to be—"

"I get it. Believe me, I do."

For a second I don't believe her, but when I look her in the eyes she gives me a small smile, a knowing one. One that says she really does know what it's like to lose yourself in all of the people who expect so much of you, what it's like to lose all of that entirely when they don't see anything in you but the prize, the competition.

I find myself smiling, at that. I thought here in the Capitol it would only get worse. More objectification, more misunderstandings, more things I had to handle but secretly couldn't.

"Hey, why don't me and you stick together? And with Ross, if we can."

I turn to Astrid, keeping my face as even as possible.

"Well, we are, I mean—"

"You know what I _really_ mean, though. Everyone needs a friend within whatever the hell this group is gonna be," she says, nodding her head towards the diffused mass of people. One of the Four mentors had to all but drag Hariwin off and across the room. Nobody else got in trouble for it, just him.

"And what about him?" I ask her, gesturing towards him. She looks thoughtful, glancing over to him with a certain degree of curiosity in his eyes.

"We see how far he can go. And once we're done with him, we kill him."

I don't want to kill him. I don't want to kill anybody, really, but now that I'm here I have to. They don't let victors walk out by pure circumstance. I trained for this. I know I can kill somebody, I just don't know if I'll be able to look them in the eyes and do it.

I need this, though. I want this. A friend. Safety, security. A guarantee.

"Deal."

* * *

Oh my goodness, training next, guys. This is so much more fun to write now that they're all interacting, especially when Hariwin's main goal is harassing everyone. I did contemplate him punching someone, just couldn't decide who. That might still happen. Anyway, keep up the reviews because I love and appreciate every single one of them. As well, give me your thoughts, maybe, on what you think this will look like by the end of training, if you're up to it. Who do you see allying, which relationships will cause conflict, etc. I'd be interested to know.

Also, poll results are up on my profile, if you're interested in checking those out.

Until next time.


	12. Coventry

Training, Part One.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years**  
**District Four Male**

* * *

This group of us is interesting, to say the least. Most of the outer-District kids are listening to the instructor ramble on about rules and whatnot. The Ones are, including the smallest one, who's got a rather skeptical look on her face. She turns her eyes to me, like she can tell I'm staring at her, and looks away almost as quick. That whole situation will be more than fun to deal with.

Sheridan, Ross, and Astrid are all listening as well. So that marks me as the only one who's really not, and I'm not about to start now. This woman can't tell me anything I don't already know. Three days, alliances, stations, no killing anyone. Yet. I just want the 'yet' phase to be over.

"So, what are we gonna do about Estelle?"'

I would never admit to nearly jumping half a foot in the air, had I not restrained myself. The Two boy's crept up to my side. I don't know how I didn't hear him, he's making zero effort to be quiet. Almost like he wants to interrupt.

"Is that her name?" I ask a little too loudly. At least half the room turns to look at me. The instructor fixes me with a rather impressive glare, but continues on with her little spiel, trying to draw everyone's attention back to her. For the most part, it doesn't work. At least she tried. It's more than most people do.

"Yeah. Terron, by the way."

"Hariwin," I say, a little quieter than before. The instructor still looks at me sternly, but then the doors open, and we're suddenly all free to roam around. "Guess we're about to find out."

Terron smirks a little. I like him. I don't think he's quite as much of an asshole as me, but it'll work out just fine. Maybe he'll surprise me.

While we've been talking, Sheridan and Ross have picked some spot a little more than halfway across the room. The One's troop after them. Astrid's still standing at my side, looking up at me expectantly. That, or she's a tad annoyed that we're still not moving, but I don't have to listen to any of them. If any one of them think they're easily going to establish themselves as a leader, they've got something coming to them. Terron crosses over to them without us, quickly deciding that even though he probably doesn't want to, he has to listen, for now. He's outnumbered. He'll start doing his own thing only when he feels he's comfortable enough to.

By the time Astrid and I make our way over, we end up formed into a half-hearted circle, just staring at each other, sizing up our future competition. The thing is, minus Terron, they all seem to be alright with each other. Obviously I missed something. Oh well. We go around the circle, introducing ourselves until we end up back at Camilla, who started the whole big happy family thing. She's probably trying to keep us all together for as long as possible before we start terrorizing people, in my case. Sheridan's trying to help, in whatever way she can. Those two will be close, if anything.

We're all pretty quiet. It's boring, honestly. No one wants to interject to make a firm decision and establish themselves as the one to speak up. Guess it's time to have some fun, then.

"What are you still doing here?" I pipe up, looking towards Estelle. Her eyes widen, and she looks between me and the rest of the group. Beside me, Terron's smirking. Oh boy.

"Sorry?"

"I'm pretty sure you heard me. You deaf as well as useless, now?"

She pales, swallowing hard, hands balled into fists at her side. She looks like she's about to cry just for the sake of doing it. So she's a brat as well as a virtually untrained Career. Guess I'll have to remind myself to put that information away for future reference.

"Hariwin—" Ross starts, looking between the two of us. He shuts up when I turn to look at him. That wasn't hard.

"Are you even trained?" I ask her. I already know the answer. She's got enough to her that she probably did, but not much. She looks like a child and acts about as similarly. Hell, the twelve year olds here are probably more useful than she is.

"For your information, I did, just not—"

"Just not enough to be a Career. So I'll repeat myself, why are you still here?"

There are angry tears in her eyes, now. The thing is, if I wasn't here, they'd probably let her in the group. What a shame. Everyone else stays silent, so at least they're smart. They know not to get in the way of this.

"You can fuck off now," I say finally, looking straight at her. When the first tear slips out of her eye, I give her a spectacularly fake smile. She looks around the lot of us, wondering if anyone will say otherwise. Sheridan looks like she's about to. Camilla almost there as well, and Ross is working himself back up to that. Better she leaves before that. When no one responds she clenches her fists together again, whipping around and storming off across the room towards an empty station. Everyone stares after her, their faces reading somewhere between shock and confusion.

"Are you fucking serious?" Camilla asks me, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What?" I inquire innocently. Terron looks like he's about to laugh, turning to the side slightly and ducking his head. Amara looks borderline terrified to be near me, even with Astrid between us as a buffer.

"We could have used her," Sheridan points out, but not aggressively. She's probably one of the perfect textbook definitions of Career, in anyone's eyes, but perfection doesn't win things nowadays. I think all of our mentors were hoping she'd get through to me, if anyone could, but that's not about to happen. They lost the ability of control the second I volunteered.

I set my sights on scoping out the room, letting them finish staring at me. Camilla and Sheridan, after a few moments of quiet talking, go off together to one of the weapons stations. Ross looks after them, and then makes his move towards the other side of the room. He stops a few seconds later, turning around to meet Amara's eyes. She looks hesitant initially, but then he smiles and she quickly crosses over to his side with a grateful look in her eyes. That leaves me and Terron, who are both looking around with a fair bit of amusement, and Astrid, who looks half-exasperated and half-something else I can exactly pin-point.

"What a big, happy family we all are," I comment calmly. Terron finally has to fully turn away, a hand over his mouth, looking way too proud of himself for staying quiet through the whole exchange.

"Let's go terrorize some people, shall we?" Terron gestures, sweeping his arms wide as if he's presenting the room to us. I nod, almost a little too enthusiastically, and Astrid rolls her eyes, but nods as well.

We decide which direction to go in seconds, Terron's eyes on a group not too far from us, and the three of us take off towards them.

From the corner of my eye I barely notice Astrid, walking calmly beside me with the faintest glimmer of a smirk on her face.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

For the first time in a long time I'm at a complete loss for what to do with myself.

I spend the first hour smashing a staff at dummies and generally destroying a small corner of the Training Center. Eventually, a trainer appears out of thin air with his own weapon, and he goes to work on testing my abilities. After a few minutes, watching him dart back and forth trying to hit me, I realize it's nothing I haven't already taught myself, and I didn't even have access to the resources this guy probably does. I'm no doubt giving away more than I'm supposed to, but most of the people here already had an inkling that I wasn't just a random, spur of the moment volunteer. If anything I'm just confirming their suspicions.

In the midst of several parries and blocks two of the Career girls, the ones from One and Four, pick up two identical looking spears from the rack about twenty feet away. They don't move to do anything with them. They're watching me, but I can't watch back and concentrate on what I'm doing at the same time. The trainer steps away after another five minutes, heaving for breath, and says he needs a break. I'm left standing there, feeling like I could go for hours more. Instead I take to watching the two of them out of the corner of my eye. The Four girl eventually launches her spear at a target, piercing the bullseye with so little effort it's almost terrifying. The girl from One is almost as accurate, but I can tell just from the way she's holding it that it's not her weapon of choice. She'll fight with it only if she has to.

It's good that I'm alone, I guess. I couldn't observe nearly as much as I'm doing right now. And besides, I don't really know how I want to go about the whole ally situation just yet. They'd be nice, and probably useful, but no one's going to come near me, at least not right now. Half of them are probably too nervous to and the other half probably doesn't know what to do in general. I wondered if those two girls would talk to me, at first, but they seem content to watch for now. Besides, I never knew what I'd do if the Careers wanted me, and looking at whatever dysfunctional hell is already going on, I'm not touching that alliance with a ten foot pole.

Staff. Whatever.

Eventually I set it back down where I got it and take a seat at the snares station. Might as well learn something, if I can. And besides, no one's sitting here currently, so I didn't have to intrude and accidentally ruin's someone's day.

The instructor gives me a few basic instructions about knots and a few metal fragments to work with. I could probably figure this out if it didn't feel like a thousand people were staring at the back of the head. I just put my head down and try to focus on what I'm doing. Won't help to focus on what I can't control.

I'm looking down at my little coil of rope when someone sits down next to me on the bench with a thunk. I glance up from the corner of my eye and the Nine girl is swinging her legs across the bench, settling herself down not half a foot away from me. She offers me a sunny smile.

"Hey, I'm**—"**

"Elora. Right?" I ask. She pauses, staring at me.

"Elevator yesterday. You were introducing everyone," I explain. She gives me a smaller smile, shaking her head.

"Right. Forgot, sorry."

"Nah, don't be sorry. There's a lot to remember."

We lapse into silence while she cranes her head over and tries to make sense of the pictures that the instructor laid out for me, occasionally looking over to see how well I'm replicating it. She seems content to just watch me do it rather than attempt it herself.

"If you wanted to be alone, you're gonna have to tell me, because if not I'll just sit here all day. I mean, I came over here because everyone was staring at you like you'd grown wings, or something, so I thought I'd break the ice," Elora explains, examining the knots I've made with a frown. "You don't seem that bad. Don't know what everyone's thinking."

"I'm a big-bad scary outer-District volunteer? Can't blame them, if they're thinking it," I say quietly. She lets out a small laugh.

"You're not scary, though. Quieter than I thought you'd be, actually, so there's that."

I find myself smiling at that. Most people would think I'd be louder, if they knew my ambitions. It's nice to surprise them. Elora, on the other hand, is exactly what I expected. Out-going, seemingly doesn't care about what other people think about her, because she made the first move to come over here. Probably oblivious, if her earlier comment about leaving was anything to go by. She's nice, though. Cheery in a way she shouldn't be able to be in this situation.

She shouldn't be here.

I push that thought out of my head as quickly as it enters. There's a lot of people who don't deserve to be here, and I can't save them all. I can't save any of them, if I'm going to win. It's a fact I'll have to accept.

"So what are you good at? Because I'm guessing knots isn't one of them."

Elora lets out a full laugh this time, lightly hitting me in the shoulder.

"See, you even have a sense of humour! Not scary at all," she says cheerfully. "But uh, I guess I'm a pretty good runner. I'm a Nine kid, so I spend all of my time outdoors, really. And I guess using a sickle to cut wheat is a bit different than killing someone, but—"

"A bit."

"—shut up. But I'm pretty good at that too. So I'm not totally screwed," she says finally, shrugging. She sighs in exasperation at the diagrams in front of her, looking very much like she wants to throw them across the room. And she doesn't look it, but she's strong, if the callouses marked across her palms are anything to go by. We're different, and it's so evident that everyone in the room can probably see it, but I like her. And if I like her now, I could probably learn to trust her.

"Hey, Spens?" She asks, idly flipping through one of the little workbooks. I turn to her, watching her eyebrows furrow as she comes across no doubt even more complicated things than the one I'm working on.

"Yeah?"

"I know it might be stupid, and that you have every right to like, not wanna do this, but I was wondering—"

"If you wanna be allies?" I finish for her. She puts on a show of fake shock in her eyes, turning to me with a hand over her heart, and I can't help but let out a small laugh of my own. Eventually she drops her hands into her lap and crosses her legs, staring at me thoughtfully, but still smiling.

"You're serious?" She inquires. This is the only moment of seriousness I've seen in her. She's not taking this lightly, which only makes me more sure.

"Wouldn't bother if I wasn't."

She nods, looking satisfied with my answer, and hops up from the bench. For a second I wonder if she's just going to go elsewhere, look for different people that she'll no doubt charm into her good graces, but just as I turn back to my work, she grabs my upper arm with one hand and all but drags me off the bench. Definitely stronger than I thought.

"Well, we're not sitting here all day, ally. Let's go."

I shake my head, but I'm still smiling. I have no idea what I just got myself into.

* * *

**Abigail Locey — 17 years**  
**District Ten Female**

* * *

"Hey, Falco?"

He hums in acknowledgement, scanning the rack of swords with a mixture of confusion and careful thought in his eyes. The first sword he tried to pick up he couldn't get more than two feet off the ground, and that was using both hands.

"I know we already said we're allies, but do you think we should get anyone else?" I wonder, glancing around the room. Except for the odd little groupings of Careers scattered here and there, everyone seems to be doing their own thing. Besides Falco and I, that is. We decided we'd be better off together than alone almost as soon as we got on the train, and our mentors agreed.

The worst part is, neither of us know what to do. We're both sort-of outdoors-y, but neither have us have any knowledge on weapons, or climbing, or even edible plants. Right now I'm basing my survival on hoping there's some sort of really obvious food I'm allowed to eat in the arena. That, or a miracle.

My life was fine the way it is. I had a family and friends and I was _fine_. Happy, even. So of course they had to yank me away from it. Of course.

Falco pauses in his search for a sword that isn't larger than half his entire body, looking over his shoulder at me.

"Do you _want_ other allies? I mean I don't care, but it might be a bit early. We don't really know who to go for."

He's got a point. Everyone besides the Careers is just milling around, poking into the stations but not really getting into anything. And besides, who would want us as allies? There's got to be a middle-ground somewhere, we just need to find it.

"Maybe let's watch and think about it at lunch? Or we can keep thinking tomorrow. We've got a while."

He nods in agreement, rifling through the collection of swords. "Think I'm gonna stay here. There's pretty much always swords in the arena."

We agree to go our separate ways, him agreeing with a mock salute before he finally decides on a sword, picking it up in his left hand. I can only pray for anyone who gets near him before a trainer teaches him how to properly hold it. I can only hope he doesn't swing it around with anyone near him. Hopefully by the time we get together again he doesn't accidentally cut my head off.

I take off on my own, letting myself walk slowly to glance over at all the the stations as I go past. The twelve year old from Eleven is navigating through an obstacle course like a monkey. The girl from Three is at the snares station, the only one there now that the pair Six and Nine have wandered off. Besides that, a few people are lingering around the area with all of the knives, watching the blonde One girl hit bullseye after bullseye. The massive Four guy is slaughtering dummies with a sword bigger than me. Guess I'm not going that way.

I end up at the archery station. The only other one there is the small Twelve girl, who glances over at me before resuming her hunt for a bow that's more her size. Maybe that's an idea. I start looking myself, but a trainer soon comes out from behind another station to help us out. By the time the girl, Cassia, I hear the trainer call her, gets situated, I've found one myself. For being so small, her stance isn't all that bad. Her first draw sends her arrow skittering below the target, but the second one knocks into the bottom of the target, bouncing off, but at least it hit. She doesn't look happy, though. I move a safe distance away, slinging a sheath of arrows over my shoulder. I feel oddly calm about this, which is good. Better to be able to work on something.

"Need any help with that?"

So much for that. I yelp and turn, nearly swinging my bow into someone's face, that someone being Ross. He takes a wide step back, smiling cheekily, and I roll my eyes.

"You're an ass," I tell him. He laughs, turning back to the One girl who's behind him, looking at the bows herself.

"Amara, this is Abbie."

She crosses over and dutifully shakes my hand. Her smile is small, but genuine. It's good to know that they're not all heartless. Something tells me she's not necessary comfortable in this situation and within a minute is back to looking through the weapons, her expression back to the blank slate it was when I first saw her. Probably trying to distance herself. Makes sense, I guess, but I've never been good at that.

"Seriously, though, need help?" Ross asks, gesturing to the bow. I nod, turning back to face the row of targets. From ten feet down, Cassia is watching us with a look of disbelief on her face. To be honest, that's kind of my thought process too, but I'm not going to refuse his help. He's being genuine about this and if he wants to help me get better at something, he can be my guest. I'm grateful for it.

"Feet shoulder-width, yeah, that's good. Elbow definitely not that high," he laughs, moving my arm himself. "How's that feel?"

"Awkward as all hell," I say before I can stop myself. He chuckles, moving my arm again.

"Takes a bit to get used to it, don't worry."

It takes a solid few minutes to get me into something that he thinks will work. My arm threatens to shake when I draw back, but I hold as steady as I can. I just keep telling myself to breathe. Training isn't the only thing that could rely on this. My life is going to be riding on if I can do this or not. I'm not going to lay down and die.

I release the arrow. As soon as I do, I start holding my breath. Please just work.

It sinks itself solidly into the very top edge of the target, wavering slightly before it stills.

"Well, shit," I blurt out.

"That was actually really good. Most people can't even hit it the first time. Keep working on your aim and you'll be fine," Ross says, patting my shoulder. I think he's serious. Something tells me he's a horrible liar.

"It's really close to the top, though. I could totally hit an apple off of someone's head," I say confidently, lowering the bow. "Wanna go stand down there for me?"

Ross backs up, hands in the hair, smiling widely. "I'll pass. Save it for the actual thing."

He freezes a little bit at that, and so do I, picking a spot on the ground to stare at. He could've just taught me to kill him. He no doubt knows a million way to kill me just standing here. Amara's staring between the two of us now, but looks away when she sees the look on both of our faces. I don't know why Ross is here. Back in Four, he could probably do great things. Help a lot of people. Instead he chose to volunteer and he's not going home without killing someone. Somebodies, probably. And knowing my luck, one of those somebodies will probably be me, and the fact that fate dropped me here will only make it worse for him. Make it worse for whoever gets me under their kill belt.

Whether I get out of here or not, I'm hurting someone. I only wished I had realized that sooner.

* * *

**Estelle Galore — 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I try to leave the Training Center.

Long story short, they don't let me, even when I threaten to throw a tantrum, or cry even harder, or scream so loud it echoes around the room and causes someone to drop their weapon out of sheer shock. One of the Peacekeepers looks half-willing to throw me over his shoulder one-handed and drop me back in the middle of the room if I don't comply. I settle for storming off, eventually, and let the anger stew on it's own.

Now I'm sitting at the edge of the camouflage station, not doing anything, just sitting. The attendant looks a little annoyed at where I've chosen to sit, but he can get over it, for all I care. If I'm going to be cast aside like I'm nothing what point is there in trying and giving them a show? I suppose this is kind of like my own personal rebellion. If One was doing it, I should be allowed to as well; protest my own reaping. It's futile now, obviously, because no matter what I do they're still going to throw me in the arena, but it feels like I'm winning.

I wasn't expecting Hariwin. He came out of left field and tore the whole group apart by casting me out in a matter of seconds. None of them even bothered trying, and I thought Careers were supposed to be loyal and honorable. Apparently that specific type is a rare breed, nowadays. I have no idea why I'm surprised. I've seen the ruthlessness at the Academy in One firsthand, but I never participated in it. I kept to myself.

The only thing that I've learned so far is that teenagers evidently suck more than I already thought they did.

I miss Queenie. She might be six years younger, and a cousin, but we act more like twins. She was the only one who really payed any attention or supported me. Even at twelve, though, she was more ambitious than me. She's already training. In six years time, she could be a victor, and I probably won't be around to see it. In even less time my brother could be one.

I'm here now, and I've got the odds stacked against me, but I might as well win. Show everyone up before they get the chance to do this themselves. Show my mother that I'm not worthless. I'd _love_ to get back and see her reaction when I slam the door of my new house in her face. See how much she appreciates me then.

"Excuse me, dear, would you mind moving?"

I blink and look up at the instructor. His face is carefully blank, like he's trying not to show his annoyance. That, or he's terrified that if he does anything else, I'll explode on him. It's almost satisfying.

"Why?" I snap. He just barely flinches.

"Other people would like to use the station," he says carefully, trying to smile. It comes out as more of a pained grimace. "If you don't mind."

I notice the way he quickly tacks that on the end. What, is he going to tell them to go away if I say no? I doubt it. I sigh dramatically, rising to my feet and crossing over to a different part of the station, resuming my position once I've deemed myself to be far away enough from whoever decided they need to be over here at this exact moment. I crane my head, trying to see around the instructor's rather wide form. It's the youngest one from Nine and Cassia from Twelve. See, I remember some things. I don't know why everyone thinks I'm an idiot.

The two of them separate and go to work. So they're not allies, then. They both seem to be doing alright. Somehow the boy is already covered in paint from fingertip to elbow. Cassia reminds me of Queenie, in a way. Just looking at her and the way she's looking around, it's not hard to tell that she can be mischievous, when she wants. She's not nearly as loud as Queenie is, and her hair's not dark enough, but the pang of familiarity hits me so hard in the chest I want to cry again.

"Are you going to stare at me the whole time, or?" Cassia asks suddenly, not even looking up from the task at hand. This time I jump a bit, my eyebrows raised in surprise. She really is Queenie, and if she's like her, that means she's a friend.

"Just watching," I finally settle on. I don't know what else to say. For a twelve year old, she's pretty confident in herself. Anything else I could come up with would pale in comparison.

"Sucks, being alone, doesn't it."

"Yeah," I sigh. Out of the corner of my eye, the Nine boy carefully slides away. Definitely not worth his time. That or he's getting out before I start crying, because I can feel that coming again. What the hell is wrong with me? If I'm not careful, I'll drown before the Games even start.

As calmly and as quietly as possible, I rise to my feet and crouch down next to Cassia. She doesn't move, nor show any signs of acknowledgement to my existence at all. She's not a camouflage master, it seems, and an artist by no means. Her fingers are covered in a light shade of brown, the stuff caked heavily under her short nails.

"Looks good."

She gives a snort at that. "Thought people from One would be better at flattery."

There's a lot of maturity in her. It's surprising. Definitely more wisdom than a twelve year old has any right to, especially one from as foreign as land as Twelve is. The fact that people are probably more surprised by her than me is a disheartening thought, but a very real one, and there's that crushing feeling again, the one that tells me to either scream and give up or fight even harder to prove them wrong.

"Are you over here because you're alone or because you're legitimately interested in sticking with me?" Cassia inquires. She very nearly pokes her tongue out in concentration.

The thing is, I don't know. I am alone. Lonely, even, but I'd never say it outloud. And now I'm sitting here, half-buried in tall grass with probably the only person who has made an effort at just letting me be me, even if she didn't mean to. The only person who ever will. There's a level of calmness in her eyes, but a lot of mistrust. I've seen it before. Everyone in One looked at me like that when I got reaped.

So I don't know if I'm here for her, or for myself, or to prove everyone wrong. But I have time. I don't have to decide now.

I guess all of us will find out.

* * *

I love training, okay. It was probably the easiest thing I've written so far, it's actually a miracle. Once these guys get talking they don't shut up, goddamn. Anyway, we see some alliances forming here, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on them and how you think they'll work out in the long run. Blog will be updated as alliances are formed, as per usual. As well, give me your predictions for who you think will ally! I've got it all sorted out (have for a while now), so I'd be interested to see how you guys think it will go.

Anyway, until next time.


	13. The Turning Point

Training, Part Two.

* * *

**Porter Crankshaw — 18 years  
District Seven Male**

* * *

Training is interesting.

I only say that because I'm not sure if there's another word for it. Awkward, sure. Scary, probably. If someone wanted to, they could pick up a weapon and kill a few of us here and now before someone managed to stop them.

Honestly, though, there's not enough words in my dictionary to put name to everything going on here. So interesting suits it just fine.

Acacia and I spend a lot of the first day together, wandering around and generally looking at things. That's what we were told. Scope out the rest of the field, work on survival stuff, the works. After that we could go to town with whatever we wanted. Acacia took that a tad too literally and has been at the knife-throwing station since the moment we were let in here. At first she was pretty terrible, which I'd never say to her face, but she's been getting better for the past few hours. Almost all her knives hit the targets now, but I don't know how's she's still going. Her arms must be pretty tired.

I contemplate throwing axes around, but I already know how to do that. Imagine them as a tree and bam, good enough. As long as I hit them somewhere important, they'll go down. Not that I really want to imagine doing that, but I want to go home. I want to live. The less humanity I see in this room, the better.

It's hard, though. Some of the smaller ones remind me of my siblings. Cassia's almost like Amber, quiet and determined and just barely-there angry, even at ten years old. Mulberry's just plain old angry, which I can't say any of them really are, but I suspect they will be. If I die in here, they're going to grow up and raise hell. Thinking about that almost brings a smile to my face. My parents did an alright job with us, and me with them when they weren't around.

I end up at the fire-starting station. The girl from Five is there, who looks up warily and then goes back to what she was doing when she realizes I'm not there to harass her or even talk to her, really. I've got an ally. We haven't decided if we want any more, yet, and I don't know who to go after if we do. It's all a little too overwhelming for me. I'm just trying to concentrate my anger into determination and focus on winning rather than punching a Peacekeeper in the face.

"Mind if I sit?" Finnea asks softly, from just over my left shoulder. I nod without turning back to her, dead-set on concentrating on and organizing what I just got handed. Some rocks. Some twigs, and some messy bark shavings that I think are supposed to be kindling. The fuck am I supposed to do with this?

"You look like you're having an aneurism," Finnea says, a barely-there smile on her face. She shakes her head gently, pulling the stuff away from me and towards herself.

"I am, thanks very much. How do you know how to do this?"

"Worked on it a bit yesterday." Her hands go to work arranging a neat little pile of sticks and general shaved-stuff. "Wasn't that hard once I got it going."

I severely doubt it will be that way for me, but it's a nice thought. I'll just get frustrated, and then once I get frustrated I'll get angry and give up. I'm not going to ask for help, either. I don't need whatever skills they're trying to offer me. They're prepping me to die and hoping I go down in some interesting fashion, but what do they expect? That I'm going to burn the whole place down?

Finnea's quiet. She has been since we got on the train. Really quiet, and a whole lot shy, but we talked at dinner yesterday. Or at least I did. She interjected occasionally with a random comment or a small chuckle, and Acacia glared at the general existence of everything in the room. She doesn't like Finnea, and I'm not going to begin to understand why. Girls are weird.

All I do know is that it doesn't feel right. I didn't think I could trust Finnea, but I'm beginning to think that I could. Leaving her out doesn't feel right. I don't know who else she'll ally with, because she's not going to go up to anyone herself. Unless she's approached, she's alone.

"I'm sorry," I comment quietly, dropping my elbow on the table and leaning my head into my palm. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't look away from her little project.

"'Bout what?"

"Not allying with you. I wish I could use the stereotypical it's not me, it's you, but it was you, at first. I'm a shitty judge of character. So I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you," she huffs lightly, dropping her hands on the table and looking me straight in the eye. "Seriously, it's fine. I understand."

"But I don't even get it," I interject. Seriously, what is with girls? Am I really just that oblivious to not even know my own actions when other people fully understand them? We lapse into silence for a while and I watch in a mixture of half confusion and half admiration as she manages to spark up a little, contained fire, the flames licking at the small twigs and charring them within seconds. Finnea sits back, obviously satisfied with the job.

"I have an idea," she says suddenly, and I almost jump.

"Should I be worried?"

"No, just an idea. I'm not going to mess with whatever Acacia's got going on, but how about if we run into each other in the arena, or if we need each other's help, we help each other, alright? No Seven left behind, or whatever we wanna call it."

I'm almost sure that's the longest sentence I've ever heard her say. But instantly, I'm there. I get what she means. We're not allies, not in the true sense of the word, but she's not going to turn a corner and automatically stab if she knows it's me. This is good. Hell, this is what I wanted. I have an ally and a possible friend in Acacia and a sense of security with Finnea.

"Well, that's a deal if I've ever heard one," I say confidently, giving her my best smile. It's probably half a grimace, because this is still a terrible idea in the grand scheme of things, what with at least two of us going to die, but maybe this will help.

No Seven left behind. I like it. For now, we can stick together in whatever small way we can, even if it doesn't necessarily mean allies. Eventually we'll have to leave each other behind, leave each other for death, but it'll be alright, in the end.

Because one of us is going to win.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

We get released for lunch on the second day and I still don't really know what I'm doing. Not that anyone knows it, because I've still got the same image that I had on when I walked in here. Quietly confident. Self-assured. Not as much as the Careers, because I'm not a miracle worker, but enough to prove to someone, anyone, that I have a chance. So I've wandered around, picked up some weapons, and tried not to look like I was bumbling around not knowing what the hell was going on.

Which, to be completely honest, was exactly what was happening.

The thing is, I don't have any allies. I want them, though. And as much as I feel bad for Eitta and wished I could help him, I can't. I wish there was something I could do, but what is there to wish for? Going back and having someone get reaped in his place? It's still at least one of us dying. And there's that part of me that wants to push him away because it'll only hurt more, as fucked up as it is.

After I grab my food I let myself glance around the room. There's empty tables, but going to one of them really isn't going to help unless one of the few stragglers behinds me picks the same one I do. Eventually I settle on one, dropping myself in the spot across from the Three girl. She glances up at me for only a second before going back to poking at whatever she's got on her plate. The pair from Ten, sitting at the other end of the table, don't pay much attention, if any.

I realize too late that I probably should have, you know, asked if I could sit down. Just from looking at her I can tell she's more of a stick-to-herself kind of girl. I honestly don't think she's spoken to anyone yet.

"Sorry, I'm Kiero," I say, holding out my hand towards her. "Probably should have started with that."

"Probably," she snorts, but takes my hand anyway, dropping it quicker than usual. "Lilith or Lilly, doesn't matter."

I'm surprised, at first, that she'd offer a nickname at all. Something tells me if anyone calls her that without warning, the glare in her eyes would physically hurt. I like to think that I'm a perceptive person, one who can understand people, but she's got a lot covered up. Something tells me she'd keeping whatever hand got dealt to her close and she's not about to start throwing cards around. The thing is, though, I appreciate that. I understand that. She's smart. She may not be hugely physical but neither am I. Hell, I've never thrown a punch in my life. I'd probably break my whole hand before I did any damage to someone.

"Are we going to talk, or sit here in awkward blind date silence?"

I inhale my drink the wrong way the moment she says it, spluttering. She tries not to smile, but I can see it threatening to pull at the corner of her lips through the tears in my eyes. I can already feel my cheeks going red with embarrassment. Half the room is staring at me now, and normally that wouldn't be a bad thing, but they really didn't need to focus on that. I don't want them to. This is the last thing I need right now.

"That was attractive," Lilith says calmly. I don't want to be angry at her, because it was my own fault. But seriously, warn a guy next time.

"Well, we can talk, if you promise not to say anything like that."

"Like what?"

I stare blankly at her and she does smile, this time. I feel proud of myself for getting that, but I can feel the uneasiness radiating off of her. She's solitary and likes it just fine that way.

"You don't want allies, do you?" I ask, already knowing the answer and dreading it all the same. Maybe I should've sat somewhere else. Not that she's bad, minus mortally embarrassing me in front of the entire room, but I'm not going to get anywhere like this. Lilith shrugs, dragging her spoon through the soup sitting next to the little tray she has. She's barely touched any of it.

"I'll get back to you on that."

So that's a maybe, safely leaning towards a no. I sigh, dropping my head into my hands, laced together at the table edge.

"Why is this so difficult," I mumble, trying not to groan.

"It's nothing against you, I'm just—"

"Better off alone. It's okay."

I get it. I get why she wants to distance herself. Maybe it'd be best for me to do that, but I can't follow her actions. If I've got anything going for me, it's that I'm not a follower. I'm going to get somewhere, I just don't know when. Or how, now that I think about it, but I'll find that moment eventually.

I can hear the scrape of utensils across plates from Lilith, and then her motions still. I can almost feel her look up, above my head or over my shoulder, but I can't be bothered to follow her gaze. I just need to sort everything out for a minute and then I'll be good. Put the image back on. Put myself back on, really, because this is who I am. Myself just needs to go and get some allies, now.

"Uh, Kiero?" Lilith questions. I can hear the confusion in her voice. "Might not be as hard as you think."

I lift my head, my eyebrows furrowing together. She's still not looking at me, though. And that's when I feel the very real presence of someone standing behind me. I shuffle around, trying not to give myself whiplash in my haste to see whatever's going on.

Elora's standing a mere few inches from the back of my chair. I nearly crash back into the table in my surprise. I realized she didn't have a huge concept of personal space in the elevator, but now I've really seen it. Spens is standing behind her, glancing around the room, but he turns to look at me the second I glance over at him.

"I couldn't help but overhear—"

"You were eavesdropping," Spens says, obviously amused.

"Quiet from the peanut gallery back there, I'm the ambassador here," Elora chides, turning around to smack him lightly in the arm. He rolls his eyes, but turns away from the conversation, going back to his silent watching.

"We were wondering if you wanted to stick with us for a bit? No need to rush into anything, but really, we'd be good together. Or at least I think so," Elora says confidently. I think she had notes for that little spiel written on her hand. I'm probably gaping at her, because of all the things that could have happened, I didn't think this would be one of them. Her, maybe. Spens, no. But this is what I wanted, and if I have to beat the skepticism about this alliance out of myself in the next few minutes, I'll do it.

I turn back to Lilith, ready to tell her that _well sorry, have to run and be productive_, but she gives me a silent thumbs up, shaking her head, before turning back to her food. Apparently that's the end of that, then. I'm grateful she's not offended, but then again, she was the one to turn me down. She's just setting me free to do other things now.

"I'm in."

Elora claps her hands together and drags me off of my chair in a similar fashion to what she did to Spens yesterday. Should have seen that coming. And I barely know her, but she wraps an arm around my shoulder and I can't help but smile. I'm getting somewhere. Hell, I've gotten somewhere.

In a few days, I'll be in an even bigger somewhere. But now I have a chance.

* * *

**Sheridan Ariss — 18 years  
District Four Female**

* * *

Training is going much better than it did yesterday. Considering how much of a disaster yesterday was, though, I don't know if that's exactly a step-up.

Hariwin's gotten more tolerable over-night, although I'm still not comfortable being around him. I think all of our mentors had a talk with him and told him to cool it, at least until the Games. On the other hand, Terron's gotten worse. As I expected we split off into our little groups almost as soon as we got in here; Camilla and I, Ross and Amara, and Terron sticking with Hariwin and Astrid. As soon as Camilla muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like _third-wheeling_, he took to harassing us.

I'm doing my best to ignore him. But it's hard, when he's practically breathing down both of our necks. I'm not one to judge. Hell, I try to see the best in people before anything else. But there's really nothing else to describe him but self-serving asshole. There's still a huge part of me, though, that wants to get through to him. There's a lot more there than the selfish, arrogant side he's portraying to the world, I just don't know what it is.

I came into this wanting to be on as many good side's as possible. I'm almost certain Hariwin is a lost cause, but I'm solid with the rest of them. I even talked to Estelle, yesterday, just before training ended. She doesn't blame me, but she's still angry. At least that anger isn't centered at me. The longer I'm near Terron, though, the more I see that bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. The second he thinks he can, he'll kill me. He'll kill all of us.

That's the moment I break off any thought I had of trying to get closer to him for the sake of it. By no means will he forget I exist, but if I can fly under his radar, then I might be able to chance it by myself before he snaps. Which would be a lot easier if he wasn't standing two feet behind me.

"You guys are boring," Terron says suddenly. I glance over my shoulder. It doesn't even look as if he was paying attention, but to each their own. I can't get a single word in before he's gone, half-jogging across the room, predictably right towards Estelle and the girl from Twelve that she's been sticking with. In his eyes, she's probably the easiest victim. Or the most fun. It's disgusting.

"God, he's such a jackass," Camilla says quietly, following my gaze across the room. I can't help but agree, but I don't say it outloud, instead turning back to the knife-throwing station.

"So, what's your thought on the situation?" She asks me, not breaking her gaze from the target. Another bullseye.

I know what she means immediately. The pack is already unstable, but for the sake of the beginning, we need to stick with it. The real question is what to do when it falls apart, if we can do anything. Right now, we have to work with what we can.

"I'm hoping you agree, but at this point I think it would be best for the two of us to stick together," I say evenly. Instantly, she nods, and I give her a grateful smile. Even Costa agreed that it would be for the best; out of the group, Camilla and I are the most similar. We have the same goals in mind. I'm not here to make friends, but she's someone I know I can work with, and someone I genuinely like. She's even the slightest bit like Cameron, and we've been best friends for years.

"Besides that, though," I continue. "Work with what we can. Obviously stay out of the way of the two of them, but at this point, sticking together is all we have. We can't predict what will happen in there. No one can."

For not knowing each other for long, we're already on the same pace. With everything I've been taught, I know that's the key. As long as I have Camilla, we're mutually beneficial to one another. Closer than the foundation of the pack, but not too close.

Camilla glances over my shoulder. I turn, catching the eye of the Five girl, who's standing a safe distance away. She's probably deemed that a respectable distance to keep herself out of our hair. She's glancing behind me, though, at the knife station, and fidgeting nervously.

"You're welcome to come over here," I tell her, gesturing around the station with one arm. She starts, her eyes flicking up to me for a brief second before she comes closer. Not too close, she still manages to skirt a little ways around, but her posture is already more relaxed. At least now she knows that not everyone here is out to get her specifically. I want to win, and she has to die for that to happen, but I can still build the foundation. It's right here that the victor is made, not in the arena. Here you're allowed to build the bridges to victory by getting people not necessarily on your side, but bringing them just close enough that they have no reason to hate you. Some would look at it as manipulation, but that's not my goal. I want to broaden my horizons. I genuinely want people to like me.

"I'm Sheridan," I say calmly, taking a few steps towards her. I leave enough room that she can ignore me, if she wishes. I wouldn't be offended by it. She glances at me from the corner of her eyes, just barely turning towards me, but she steps forward dutifully and takes my hand, her grip tense, but the small smile on her face relieved.

"Audessa. District Five."

Camilla follows suit with the introduction and takes her hand as well. After that we let her go back to what she plans on doing, but her hesitance is gone.

"Good to let people know that we're not all bad," Camilla points out, just quietly enough that Audessa can't hear us. It's hard not to argue with that, though, but I won't fight her. I'm not under the illusion that we're good people. We volunteered for this. We're here to win, and to win we have to kill people. By every right murderers are the opposite of good people. However, there's no part of me that wants to look at it like that. I'm a merciful person. I don't have a side to me that radiates hatred and vindictiveness. I never have.

I'm here for my mother and father, for myself, for my District. I'll do what I have to and nothing more. I'm not a monster, and I refuse to turn into one. The Districts, the Capitol, everyone here, they only need to know the girl standing here right now. The one who's willing to open up and connect the dots between the biggest existing problems, to make this as easy as possible no matter why someone ended up here.

By no means is this an easy situation. It's even harder when everyone looks at you like the enemy, because for decades that's all you've ever been. It's a challenge, but one I'm determined to take on.

One that I'm determined to break through.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax ****— 12 years**  
**District Eleven Male**

* * *

The knife feels familiar in my hands.

Granted, the only thing I've ever used one for is cutting fruit out of trees. Or slicing bread, or something completely mundane and unrelated to the Hunger Games, but having this as a source of comfort is nice, as strange as it is. It shouldn't feel right, but it does.

If only I had had a knife to throw into the crowd during the chariot rides. I don't think they would have liked that much. If I had done anything remotely similar, the Gamemakers would have found an even more terrible way for me to die other than 'cut down by hulking Career' and changed it into 'eaten by ravenous bear'. Now that would've been ironic. I'm sure the Capitol would love that one.

I'm beginning to regret my name. I've never cared much, until now, but I'm sure my parents are too. And then my sisters went and made it worse by giving me a necklace with a bear pendant on it as a joke, except it's the only thing I have with me from home. And yeah, maybe it's ironic, but if anything it's just a reiteration of who I am. Of who I need to be.

I'm not delusional enough to think my chances are great. They're probably in the negatives, by now, which is why I haven't bothered looking at the Capitol odds. I don't need a television telling me what other people think my chances are. That's all fine and dandy, but in the grand scheme of things, their bets and opinions are equivalent to a load of shit. The Careers win a lot, but so do the random outer-District kids who rip a knife out of their belt and refuse to go down.

So my winning is unlikely. Unlikely, but not impossible.

I'd be the youngest victor in existence. There was a thirteen year old somewhere in the 80's, I'm pretty sure, but never a twelve year old. They're usually dead sooner than later. I don't plan on being that, which is why I find myself standing in front of a dummy a solid foot taller than me and at least twice as wide, but I have to start somewhere. I don't know much about vitals, or major veins, or anything of use that would take someone down, but I figure a knife in the general direction of _leg_ wouldn't be a bad place to start. Or anywhere, really, but on a lot of these people, leg is all I'm going to be able to reach. The perks of barely being five feet tall. The only satisfaction I have is that the other twelve year old is the same height, if not shorter.

Considering that a victory is honestly pretty sad, but I have to amuse myself if I'm going to stay concentrated. I'm not going to wallow. I don't do wallowing, or despair, or anything remotely resembling giving up. By now I'm considered cannon fodder, so I'm going to give them one hell of a surprise.

I turn the knife in my hand and jab it into a random spot on the upper thigh of the dummy. It sticks in solidly, leaving me staring at it. There really isn't a point to this. Nothing, no matter what I do, is going to prepare me to stab a living, breathing person. Flesh and blood is a lot different than whatever weird-cotton thing they've got spilling out of the fake wounds.

"Might wanna aim a little higher, kid."

I make myself turn to meet the voice behind me. It's one of the Seven girls. Acacia, I'm pretty sure. I've got a half-decent memory, so at least that's a good thing.

"Does it look like I can reach any higher?" I scoff, rolling my eyes. She laughs, crossing her arms over her chest, but her eyes are thoughtful.

"Jump?" She suggests.

"Yeah, and by the time I thought to jump, I'd be dead. Or worse."

I don't really know what's worse, yet. Besides the bear thing. I'd rather avoid that, if at all possible.

"Nah, you look quick enough. You could probably run circles around some of these people. Just stab and hope you hit somewhere important," she advises. She crosses over to a dummy of her own, looking over it. Probably knows a little bit more than me about this type of thing. Maybe I would, if I had a chance to age past twelve and get into a science class that wasn't designed to cater to six year olds.

"That's basically my strategy," I grumble under my breath, ripping the knife out and aiming lower this time, towards the calf. The process is a bit more difficult this time and I wiggle it around, frowning, until it's hilt-deep in the cotton-like flesh. Acacia's staring at me apprehensively, eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

"A little angry, eh?" She asks.

"Just a little," I hiss. I'm getting more mad by the second, actually, and it takes a lot of willpower to remind myself that this isn't her fault. She got reaped just like me. She doesn't want to be here either.

"It's alright to be angry. Good, actually," she points out. She walks over and pulls my knife out with a surprising amount of ease. "Gives you a reason to fight."

She puts the knife back in my hand and tilts it the slightest bit. "Stab up, not straight. Goes in easier."

I blink in surprise, studying my hand. It's not a huge change, but still a noticeable one. She goes back to her own dummy, snatching up a knife or two off the rack as she does.

"Thanks?" I say dumbly. She gives me a thumbs-up and goes back to her own work. Before this, I didn't think she was the helpful type. She kept to her ally, or herself, and generally looked annoyed or vaguely pissed off for the past two days. Guess we have that in common. The fact that she took a minute out of her own training to help me means a lot.

I didn't expect help from anyone. I didn't expect allies either, although they would be nice, but I don't think anyone's going to take me seriously in here. If I'm lucky people will spare a split-second glance in my direction, realize that I'm small, underfed, and always scowling, and look away in the next. My hope is that I make it far enough into the Games that someone realizes I'm capable enough to survive on my own and wants me by their side.

It's going to take a lot to admit that it wouldn't be bad to have someone by my side, either. Acacia has someone. Hell, almost everyone in here does. There's more groups than loners this time around, or partners, or Districts sticking together for the sake of it. But as per usual I'm alone, me against the world, some crushing weight or other being tossed onto my shoulders like I'm expected to fight the universe and win.

They say it every year, but the odds are never in my favor. Not in anyone's, really. To me, though, that line has always been corny and so untrue that it physically pains me. The second you're born in Panem, everything's stacked against you. Every day is survival, life versus death, deciding whether you want to live or whether you want to be a good person.

The Games are no different. In the sickest sense, I've been training for this my entire life.

* * *

I love training. I've said that before, haven't I. We've got some more relationships forming here, which was easily the part I was most excited about because I find I start to understand them a lot better when I get them around certain people. I don't even know if that makes sense. Anyway, one more training chapter, two for interviews, and then I get to start killing people. :D Should I be this cheery about that bit?

In other news, I've had the same victor for two months in my plans and this week it changed to someone else. So never give up hope.

Until next time.


	14. Rubicon

Training, Part Three.

* * *

**Elora Farro — 17 years  
District Nine Female**

* * *

We're minutes late for training, and of course the Instructor starts without us, her need for everything to be efficient and on-time overwhelming every other aspect of her personality. If she has one.

In my honest opinion, she needs to loosen up. Have a little fun.

I slide away from Quill and Arlo, ducking half-behind Spens in my haste to not get glared at. Thankfully, she turns her gaze on the two of them, still standing in the hallway entrance, and I can see the look in Arlo's eyes when he tries not to laugh. I can't help but snicker.

"That wasn't very nice," Kiero mock-whispers from Spens' other side, turning to look at me. I give him a cheeky grin and a thumbs-up, straightening up and shoving myself between them with no warning. Both of them know by now and shuffle over with no complaining.

The rules are the same as yesterday. And the day before that. Only difference is now they're telling us not to step off our plates in two days. Two days. That's it. I could be dead in two days, but that's now how I'm choosing to look at it. In two days I'm going to be alive, and fighting, and not letting them take a thing away from me in the process. When I chance a second-long glance at Kiero and Spens on each side of me, they're both wearing identical frowns.

"Why do you both look like you're constipated?"

I swear Spens almost chokes, and Kiero turns to me, face now in a very different shade of disbelief.

"That's_ my face_, what do you want me to do?"

There's a horrifically loud shushing from the front of the room. I'm able to reign in my laugh before it escapes while Kiero's face goes through several phases, ranging from mortification to a type of embarrassment I don't even think I can describe. Spens' gaze is safely on the floor, the shaking of his shoulders barely perceptible. Initially, I didn't know how the three of us had ended up together, because none of us are too similar. Spens is the fighter and Kiero is some sort of brains, with something in him practically screaming_ leader_ in all of our faces. I don't have a name for myself, yet, but I think I'm keeping them sane, in some sort of weird way.

I guess the weirdest combinations end up being the best, in the long run.

At long last we're released. By now mostly everyone was made their little groups, except for the occasional straggler that doesn't quite know where to fit, or someone who wants to be alone. My eyes go to Quill, who's still on his own. Arlo's not far behind him, trying to go somewhere on his own, but every few minutes he gravitates after him, like a balloon on a string.

"Did you talk to them?" Kiero asks me. We're letting Spens lead us to a random station on the other side of the room, the two of us walking shoulder-to-shoulder behind him.

"Yeah. I asked Quill about the ally thing and he just kind of brushed it off. Arlo told me not to feel bad and then he hugged me and told me he was happy I had made friends. Which, for all his efforts, still made me feel bad," I tell him, running a hand through my hair. There's a part of me that knows Quill doesn't want to be alone, but he does at the same time. He was a lot more closed-off, at the beginning. He's starting to care and he doesn't want to. I guess distancing himself is the only thing he's got, at this point.

I don't have an off-switch to stop caring. At the same time, there are points in my life where I just want to escape everyone, let myself be free and live my life without the constraints of other people. It's frustrating. I'm happy, though, with these two. I'm sure they love me harassing them at any time I can.

"It's not your fault, you know," Kiero tells me. "You make your choices, they make theirs. That's all we can do."

I'm half-tempted to smother him in a hug, but something tells me I better leave it for later. We have stuff to do now. Or, at least I thought we did.

"Weren't we here yesterday?" I question, looking at the station and then up at Spens. I distinctly remember the two of them attempting to build a shelter around me, only for one of the attendants to slip a little too close to it and accidentally send it crashing down on top of me. Not productive, but it sure was funny.

"Thought we could talk about plans for the bloodbath, and whatever else," Spens points out, leaning against the station's table behind him. "Might as well figure that out and then go round off whatever else we can learn."

Makes sense. Only thing is, I'm not a tactician. Bloodbath strategies isn't something they teach you in school. I look over at Kiero.

"Okay, your turn. I'm fresh out of ideas."

"Well, I know you're going into the bloodbath," he says quickly, looking evenly at Spens. "But I don't know if we should, I mean**—**"

"Neither of you need to go in. I'll do it. Just stay on the outskirts, grab whatever you can, and preferably don't leave me there alone," he tells us, composure not breaking in the slightest. I blink in surprise at him.

"You're willing to go at it alone?"

"Neither of you signed up for this. You shouldn't have to."

He's not saying it, but there's a part of him that cares, too. Spens was by no means as reserved and detached as Quill was, but he was still quiet. He doesn't want us to get hurt. That or he's just irrevocably loyal to those he considers his friends. I can see the hesitance in Kiero's eyes, torn between the safety of not having to run into it or having one of us in there alone. Looking at the both of them, there's a funny sort of ache in my chest, happiness that shouldn't be there but is. For the longest time it felt almost impossible to form any sort of relationship this quickly, but with them it's like it was completely natural.

There's not really much to say, so I grab both of them by the shoulders, turning us all until we're in a half-hearted hug type of thing, except it's awkward at best and there's still too much else going on to really focus on it. No matter what it's like, though, I can't find the energy to complain.

"I don't like group hugs," Spens complains. Kiero huffs out a little laugh and I thwack him in the back of the shoulder with the arm I've got around him.

"Get used to it."

When I finally let both of them go, at least half the room's looking at us, confused at whatever display of affection they think they just witnessed. I don't care, though, not about the stares or the whispers.

Knowing that people care is one of the only things that's going to get me through this. Even if it's just these two, or my mentor, or Quill and Arlo, knowing that there's someone fighting with me is one of the only things I could ever think to ask for besides victory.

Whether I'm dying or not, whether it's in two days or two weeks, at least I'll go knowing I tried.

* * *

**Astrid Lucretius — 18 years  
District Four Female**

* * *

Turns out, staying with Hariwin effectively keeps everyone else a minimum of fifteen feet away from you.

It shouldn't be all that surprising, but it does create a fair bit of annoyance that's only been building up since training started. My initial plan was to stick with Ross and Amara, using Hariwin as a disposable meat-shield when the time was right from him to go. Now I'm stuck with him and the former two barely speak to me. Even when they do, it's me approaching them, and I have to make sure to sneak away from Hariwin before I do.

In short? It's not going exactly as I planned.

Funny thing is, I actually don't mind Terron. He might be an even bigger jackass then Hariwin already is, but he knows it and he's keeping himself from exploding much better. He's still a ticking time bomb, but there's something in him with-holding the detonation. He's strong, and he's deadly, but he's not an idiot. Whoever trained him did a damn good job of it.

So there's the sub-alliances. Camilla and Sheridan. Ross and Amara. And then there's me, with the two guys who are either going to tear the pack down and go down in the fire or win it all.

Hariwin's back at the dummies with an axe this time, one that's so large he's holding it in two hands, cutting the bodies clean in half straight the torso with little to no effort. I can't help but sigh. At least I managed to slip away, sitting at the knot-making station

"You know, it's sort of funny," Terron says casually, lounging across the bench opposite me. "Look at us two, left to deal with, well, whatever the hell you wanna call him."

I turn to glare at him. "I'm pretty sure I'm dealing with both of you at this point."

He gasps dramatically, feigning shock, and puts a hand over his heart.

"You wound me. I'm not the one that's going to snap and kill us all."

Looking at Hariwin, I'm almost positive it will happen, hence me trying to get on his good side. My hopes are that if he does lose it, he'll be gracious enough to spare me. It's nerve-wracking, basing your chances of survival on someone else's mental stability, but it's too late to weasel my way in somewhere else.

"You're still not a good person," I point out, not turning back to him. "So don't pull that shit."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a grin spread across his face. "Neither are you, sweetheart."

It takes everything in me not to whip around and shake him so hard he falls over. It's still kind of tempting. I know that. I could have been a good person, except that all went down the drain the second we got here. The second I decided Hariwin was mine to use and no one else's. I'm prepared to kill people, to do whatever I have to do to survive.

"None of us are good people," I settle on. Terron, for once, keeps his mouth shut, only humming in quiet agreement. The pack has been built on lies and murder and deceit for years now; honor, at this point, is scarce. When it is seen it's almost shocking. That's why I'm not Ross, who is too nice for his own good, or Amara, who's too hesitant. Hell, even Sheridan, who's unbelievably strong but not a cut-throat competitor by any means.

Everything I am is made up of things I spent years perfecting. Leadership. Intelligence. All-around competence and the ability to do whatever I have to, because that's what Careers are. And now here I am, surrounded by all of the people who are managing to shove my personality into the background by breaking free of the norm.

I get up without comment and to my surprise, Terron gets up and follows, albeit with an eye-roll and a deep sigh full of irritation, like he can't bear the thought of getting up. From this moment on, I'm no longer the background object. These past three days I've spent following someone around, trying to talk to people who glance at me a certain level of distrust in their eyes that I don't like.

I end up at the largest weapons station in the center. Tridents aren't particularly suited for targets like the ones they've got up, so I spend a few minutes dragging dummies of various heights and widths around until their situated in a ragged circle. After the first few a trainer trots over, trying to offer me a helping hand, and I shoo him away, sending him scuttling back to his original area. Good. Let them be scared. Let them know I don't want to be fucked with, now or ever.

Terron seems content to sit back and watch, but he's still here, standing not far away, just watching. There a subtle, barely-there smirk on his face. When I turn to him he winks at me, crossing his arms. I'm half-tempted to throw him the finger, or go over there and shove him somewhere else, but he's not what's important right now.

I cross over to the weapons rack and grab a trident in one hand, tossing in between my hands a few times. The weight's a bit different than the ones at home, but the cool, sleek metal still feels the same, reminding me that I'm the weapon here. It only does damage if I want it to. I'm the one in control.

I return to the center of the circle, taking a few breaths to compose myself. It feels as if I've belonged to someone my entire life, been used for whatever they deem is appropriate. So this moment right here, it's entirely for me. In a matter of seconds I've blocked everything else out - the noises, the objects, the people milling around. None of it matters.

Time is futile when I'm fighting and I lose sense of everything else in the midst of the slashing and the stabbing, tearing the dummies apart like they're real enemies. There's one's arm, poised one second, lying on the floor the next, it's cottony innards spilling out on the floor. Another one's head goes flying at least ten feet away. I bury the trident in another one's stomach, wishing I had a knife in the other hand.

By the time I'm done, the floor's a mess around me. At least three quarters of the dummies are lying on the floor, limbs haphazardly arranged or separated from the body entirely. One behind me is still hanging on to it's position, one leg dangling, the other one placed solidly on the floor. With a last strike to the side of the head with my bare fist I send it crashing to the floor, landing with a dull thud.

Terron's standing five feet behind where it used to be, grinning wildly. He looks way too entertained, but I only get a second to reflect on that though before he's giving me a very slow clap, shaking his head in what's probably exasperation. The trainer quickly joins in, looking only a little afraid.

Most of the room is looking at me. Not at anyone else, or me as an addition to someone else's personality. Just me, knowing that I can stand up and fight for myself. I deserve this. I deserve to win.

No one else in this room comes close.

* * *

**Audessa Paxton — 15 years  
District Five Female**

* * *

I haven't cried since the first night on the train, and the worst part is I can feel it all starting to come back. There's that overwhelming, crushing feeling again, the loneliness that's constantly bearing down on my shoulders. I talked to plenty of people the past two days and nothing's come of it. And it only gets worse when I sit back, realizing that a twelve year old has an ally and I don't.

What am I doing wrong?

I end up back at the archery station. I've been here a lot the past three days. I'm still not great, but it's something, and I don't want to have to get close to someone if I have to kill them. There's still a part of me that's hoping I won't have to, but I know that's being delusional. If I'm getting out of here, I'll have to kill people. I know that.

There's a larger, more overwhelming part of me that doesn't think I can do it.

I'm not that person. Mom always said I was too nice for my own good. I love being with other people; having fun and enjoying myself, and now they want me to be the exact opposite.

"Hey, you said Dess was fine, right?

I barely notice Falco approach with Abigail trailing behind him. We talked right at the end of training yesterday before being called to go our separate ways. I nod, blinking away whatever emotion was threatening to rise. At this point I don't know if the tears are sadness, anger, or downright frustration. Everything is blending together until I can't even figure out what the thoughts in my own head mean.

"Well, Abbie and I we're talking and we were wondering if you wanted to be allies?" Falco asks, smiling genuinely. "We didn't get a chance, yesterday, but last night we thought it would be a good idea."

All at once every single tear I wanted to cry is back again, but for an entirely different reason. In a matter of seconds, everything changed. Lumin said it could happen, I was just starting to believe he was being nice and didn't want to crush my hopes. They want me for me. Falco's eyes widen when he takes in my expression, what is probably my blurry, tear-filled eyes and trembling lower lip.

"Okay, uh, shit, please don't cry, I don't know how to deal with people when they cry, Abbie _help me_—"

Abbie laughs, and then I'm laughing, and it's so relieving when she steps forward and hugs me. It's quick, but it's calming, but all I can focus on over her shoulder is Falco's huge, confused eyes.

"Is that a yes? I'm thinking it is but I am so not equipped to handle this," he says earnestly. Abbie chuckles again and steps back, shoving him lightly in the shoulder.

"That's a yes," she tells him, shaking her head fondly, before turning back to me. "Ignore him, he's an idiot."

Falco splutters indignantly and it's hard to focus on anything else, when we're all smiling and he's waving his arms at his frantically, first in confusion and then just because it makes us laugh. And to think, I was beginning to think I wouldn't have this. Allies._ Friends._ I know I was told that friends aren't the best idea, that it could only just hurt more in the end, but they'll make me strive further. With them by my side, I'll have the confidence to fight harder.

Despite all of this, despite the two of them laughing away, shoving at each other like nothing's wrong, I can't help but envision what's going to happen. Our private sessions later today. Interviews tomorrow. And then the games. The bloodbath. Some of these kids are going to die, kids who are good and pure who don't deserve to lose their life so early. Falco and Abbie deserve to live just as much as the next person and so do I. For the slightest bit, I find myself quieting down, but I still feel that flicker of hope sitting just inside me. No matter what I think, I won't let anybody extinguish it.

"Well, we don't have much longer until we have to do the private sessions. Anything else we want to do?" Abbie asks, turning in a full circle. I think all of us have touched on basically everything. Eventually she chooses to stay at the archery station, one last attempt to hone her skills. I end up trailing after Falco to the spear station, even though he waves me back a solid fifteen feet from him when he picks up a spear, waving it around threateningly. It's hard to be scared when I see the earnest smile on his face, almost like a puppy. At least he's moved on from the swords.

For once, I don't find I have much to say. I'm content to be with them, with them, just happy. Enjoying what could be the last few days of my life. I let him ramble on about his girlfriend, and I'm starting to think he's not even realizing that he's doing it. He blows through topics like the wind. Offhandedly, he mentions what he thinks is Abbie's supposedly massive crush on one of the Four guys, and out of nowhere Abbie appears like she dropped down from the ceiling, looking like she's about to tackle him to the ground. Falco's still got the spear in his hands, grinning wildly, backing away from her outstretched arms. The trainer looks like she's about to faint.

For the first time since I'm here, I think, I start laughing. Not super loud, or energetic, but a genuine chuckle that somehow comes forth like it was nothing. Abbie turns to look at me, glaring, but there's no real malice in her eyes.

"Don't believe him. Remember, he's an idiot."

"Right," I deadpan. Falco looks downright amused at this point. I step forward, prying the spear out of his hand before he accidentally chops off someone's limb. He gives me a grateful look.

"Thanks. Don't want to chop my own arm off, hey?"

"The only thing you've done so far is accidentally knee yourself in the face, hence why she shouldn't believe you," Abbie points out. She tosses an arm around my shoulders, looking between me and him. I put the most innocent look I can muster on my face, smiling. It just feels so natural, like I've known them for years, and I'll never be able to truly express the amount of gratitude I have for that. They're bonded by home and by circumstance and somehow I made it into their little group without even feeling like an outsider.

"Alright, whoever gets the highest score gets to decide who's right. Sound good?" Falco decides, looking between us both. I nod. Even if I somehow managed it, there's no way I'm getting in the middle of this little competition. The longer this continues on, the more I'll be amused, and right now, I don't want anything else.

"You'll be regretting that when I kick your ass."

"I get to go in first, they won't even remember you!"

"Technically I get to go in first," I remind them. "So good luck with that."

Both of them turn to look at me. Falco goes to say something again and I clap a hand over his mouth, trying not to giggle at the look on his face.

"No more talking. You'll pass out from the lack of air and get a terrible score," I say sternly. His eyebrows almost touch his airline. Abbie downright snorts, clapping her hands together.

"I love you, damn. This was a great idea."

And right now, there's not a part of me that disagrees with her.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

The room is a lot more tense than I remember it being during training.

That might have something to do with the fact that most of the Capitol opinions are riding on the score you get. That, and the fact that the Careers have all gone and went back to their floors, so there's no point in putting up a pretense of strength. No one left really cares.

Spens comes out and one of the Seven's goes in, red hair spilling out of the ponytail she's got it in, but her fists are clenched tight. She's determined. The other two call out good luck's after her, the boy's almost drowning out the girls. When Spens passes by us Elora holds out her fist, waving her arm at him until he bumps it with his own. She smiles in satisfaction, dropping her hands back into her lap, and ruffles Arlo's hair when she notices his amused smirk.

The Ten girl's sitting a few feet away from me on the left. Arlo's smushed between me and Elora, with Kiero on her other side. We're all relatively quiet, the occasional comment being stirred up here or there, but every ounce of energy each of us has is being channeled into this situation. We'll be able to talk afterwards; celebrate or lock ourselves in our rooms based on the results.

I think I'll do alright. I know Elora's got about the same skill as me, so I can only hope they don't get bored by the time I get in there.

"So, what're you gonna do in there?" Arlo asks me. He asked me that two minutes ago and I shrugged. I guess he thinks he'll get a better response this time around. Thing is, he knows what I'm doing. I told him this morning.

"Besides what I already told you," I say dryly. "Introduce myself? What else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, tell some jokes? Sing? Make up a dance?"

"You told me two days ago my jokes were terrible."

Arlo looks thoughtful. "Yeah, they are. No offense. The dancing thing is still totally valid though."

He looks so goddamn earnest. Like he's trying his hardest to help, even if he doesn't realize that he's almost always the one talking and chattering on about something or other. When I met him, it was annoying. Now it's endearing. Distance only works if you can keep it up, and I can't. The thing is, I told myself I wasn't protecting anyone. But now I don't have any allies. And the longer I'm half-listening to Arlo, glancing at him out of the corner of the eye to make sure he doesn't notice my half-hearted attempt at paying attention, the more I feel this little sort of nagging, like I'm being pulled in his direction.

In short, a fourteen year old has managed to reel me in more than almost anyone else has.

When he gets up, demonstrating some sort of apparent ninja-move he's planning on showcasing to the Gamemakers, I let myself lean back against the wall, arms crossed over my chest. I know it's a bad idea, but not for my original reasons. There's something in him that gives me hope, that makes me stop criticizing myself for two seconds and just _live_. And I haven't felt like that in a long time.

Elora gets up when her name's called. Has it been that long? I guess so. She half-strangles Arlo into a hug, waves goodbye at me, and takes off through the doors.

"Hey, Arlo," I say quietly. He turns to me, cocking one eyebrow. It's beyond me how he does it. "Come over here before you accidentally wound someone."

His face falls, but he takes his spot back at my side again. He thinks I'm irritated. I lean over, bumping his shoulder lightly with my own. He brightens up a little, giving me a small smile.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I just gotta ask you something."

Arlo hums, turning towards me, picking absently at the frayed ends of his sleeve.

"D'you wanna be allies?"

The kid nearly gives himself whiplash, his head snapping him as well as his arm, nearly hitting me straight in the face. I manage to rear back in time, nearly landing flat on the bench. Seems like that's been happening a lot lately.

"Are you serious?" He splutters. "Seriously, you have the same facial expression you always have, I don't know if you're kidding."

I can't help but smile, looking down at my lap and chuckling lightly under my breath.

"Stop laughing, you jerk!"

I rub my hands over my face, like it'll make the smile go away, while Arlo sits half-perched on the bench, looking one slip away from falling straight to the floor. I manage to wipe off most of the smile, turning to him.

"I'm just gonna say yes," he rushes out. "Because I don't know if you're kidding, but if you were, well now you're stuck with me and I'm just confused because you told me you didn't want to have to protect someone**—"**

"Remember to breathe," I interrupt, trying not to laugh again. "And I realized something. You don't need protecting and neither do I. You spent a half hour this morning following the Four guy around because you knew he was annoyed. You're young, but you're not scared. And I need someone like that watching my back."

Arlo goes silent, sitting sideways on the bench, just staring. In this moment, there's more happiness in his eyes than I've seen yet, and no one has seen anything but. For a second I forget everything I'm worried about, forget the self-doubt that's always had a home somewhere deep in my stomach. I see a shift in his eyes and he just barely twitches, like he wants to lunge across the bench and hug me. He knows better, though. Elora tried it yesterday and I turned into a wooden board. Unintentional, but I couldn't help it.

Elora comes back through the doors and my name is announced over the speakers. With a small sigh I rise to my feet, giving Arlo a smile that he returns, huge and bright. Elora holds up her hand upon approaching me, face the slightest bit flushed, but confident.

"You high-five me or I'm grabbing you and causing a scene."

I roll my eyes but raise my arm, slapping her hand with my own. She cheers but thankfully doesn't try anything else, letting me enter the Training Center with no other fuss. Just before the doors closes, I'm almost certain I can hear Arlo yelling some sort of encouragement after me. The silence and the lack of movement is eerie. It seems like it's several times bigger with no one here; no noise to fill it except the barely discernible chatter of the Gamemakers on their balcony. Head Gamemaker Mervaine is leaning against the edge, a drink dangling from one hand. If I'll give him anything, it's that he's attentive.

I glance around one last time. Sickles to the right. Training floor torn apart to the front of me, the slightest bit to the left. Probably the Careers, or maybe Spens. Most of the survival stations behind me. With one last effort that feels almost momentous, I tell myself to just stop thinking. For these few minutes, I'm not going to doubt myself. Vigilant in everything I do, even here.

"Quill Grove, District Nine," I announce, trying to force some amount of enthusiasm into my voice. "And I'm not dancing."

Mervaine laughs, taking a sip of whatever purple concoction that's in his glass, straightening up a bit as he meets my eyes.

"Good to know. Begin."

* * *

I'm back. Another sincere apology in case you didn't see the note on my profile for missing last week's update. From here on out I should (hopefully) be on track and we'll get into the serious stuff soon enough. Also, shoutout to kopycat101 who's going back and reviewing and also telling me not to worry about missing updates. You're the best.

Training's done, everyone. Two more chapters and then I'm killing people! Who's excited?

As a sort of FYI, I tried to follow, for the most part, what all of you put under the little 'allies' section in your tribute's form. Obviously I can't follow everything, some things I need to do purely for plot purpose, so if I went against your wishes or you're doubting where this is going, trust me? Don't worry, everything is for a reason. And I've got a lot of future plans for this. All alliances are updated on the blog. As well, immediately after posting this, I'm putting up their training scores in their little profile thing. I didn't want to write individual private sessions, so I'm hoping no one minds. And please don't be offended by whatever your tribute scored, I beg of you. If you want reasoning for what your tribute got, feel free to ask.

Until next time.


	15. For Everything A Reason

Interviews, Part One.

* * *

**Finnea Mason ****— ****17 years  
****District Seven Female**

* * *

To be completely honest, I don't think I've ever felt more beautiful in my life.

The thing is, I've never really tried. There wasn't much room for nice or fanciful things back in Seven. I was content to wear whatever pair of clean jeans I could find that day, shove my feet into a pair of rough, leather work boots, and set off. There was never cause for anything else, no celebrations to attend like they do here in the Capitol. And besides, even if there was, I didn't have enough to spare to set myself into whatever dress I could find and have fun. Looking at myself in the mirror, it's hard to focus on anything else. In this moment, I can forget about the looming tomorrow; the launch, the bloodbath. About the coffin they could already be making for me.

For a second, it's nice to feel something akin to happiness bloom deep in my stomach. And if being like this, just for tonight, gets me called delusional, then so be it. This could be the last night I have to appreciate things like beauty.

The dress is a deep, emerald green, sweeping along the floor in gentle waves. The heels they gave me aren't extravagantly high; I think they knew it wouldn't go all that well, forcing me to walk up stairs in things I had no business wearing. My hair is up, as I usually keep it, but they've arranged it into an elegant bun, a few strands curling gently around the sides of my face. Even the make-up on my face makes me look older, shadows aligned on my cheekbones to make me look more refined and angular. It's just enough.

Kestell's standing behind me, hands poised on her hips, looking rather proud of herself. I smile at her in the mirror and she gives me an even bigger one in return.

"You like it, then?"

"It's amazing. Really, thank you."

I like the easy camaraderie we've fallen into. When I first laid eyes on her, hair a dark bronze, her skin shimmering every time she moved like it was inlaid with diamonds, I had my doubts. Admittedly, I had a lot of them. But she's not bad. She talks a lot, more than the entire Prep Team combined, but she fills the silences where I don't know what to say with mindless chatter. The distraction is nice.

"Don't want to be late," she announces, practically ushering me out the door. "Think the other two are done already."

It would make sense. Everything Kestell does seems to be oddly time-consuming. I think she's a perfectionist. That, or she's got a serious case of OCD. The amount of times she removed and re-did my make-up should've broken a record. The end result is pretty good, though, so I can't find it in me to fault her for it.

Almost everyone is gathered in the hall downstairs. Kestell grabs me by the shoulders at the last second, a clip stuck in-between her teeth. She pulls it out, sliding it into place in my hair, securing one last fly-away, and smiles in satisfaction.

"Think you're good to go. Need any helping finding the others?" She asks me.

"I can do it, promise. Thanks," I say earnestly. Kestell's been so kind to me and I'm endlessly grateful for it. She takes my hands in hers, squeezes them once, tight, for good luck, and disappears down the hall. Can't blame her for wanting to get to her seat. We're still backstage and it sounds like chaos out there. I take off on my own, hiking up my dress the slightest bit to avoid tripping on it. I begin weaving through the other tributes, most of whom back away with a small, hesitant smile or let me through without comment.

Someone whistles, obnoxiously loud, quite close to my ear, and I try not to flinch. I turn, meeting the Two guy's eyes, a sly smile on his face.

"Very nice, you know—"

"First me, now her? Don't you have someone else to bug, asshole?"

Acacia's appeared from nowhere to place herself at my right shoulder, a challenge in her eyes. He only smiles wider, but backs away, hands in the air. He still looks way too smug for my liking.

"Just a compliment. Have a nice evening, ladies."

The two of us stare after him, twin expressions on our face. His next victims of choice happen to be the One girls. Hopefully they have more experience in dealing with him than the rest of us do.

"Well, that was creepy," I comment idly. Acacia snorts, shaking her head.

"That's one way to put it," she supposes, head cocked to the side. "Come on, Porter's off struggling with his bow-tie in the corner."

"Bow-tie?" I question, letting her lead me through the throngs of people. Her dress is short, unlike mine, and deep blue in colour, only setting off the bright colour of her hair that's trailing down her back. We look like polar opposites but in the weirdest way, the contrast almost compliments each other. Tributes, mentors, and stylists alike are all milling around in a general state of disarray. It always looks more official than this, or at least it does on television. Guess it's different when you're actually here.

"Yeah, looks like a tool. You'll understand once you see," she tells me. The look on her face tells me she's trying not to smile at the thought. I can't picture it myself, but for his sake I'll reserve all judgement until I actually see it. I'm hoping I can retain that. There's a part of me that wants to believe no one here is a bad person, but then I look at some of the Careers, with their scores of 10 and obvious strength in training, and I can't help but wonder if something's wrong with them, deep down.

The thought isn't in my head for long, because now I _can_ see Porter, tugging at the bow-tie around his neck. It looks as if he's making the situation worse. He meets my eyes over Acacia's head and grimaces.

"Please, please do not fucking laugh," he grimaces. I press my lips together so hard it's painful and will myself not to, for his sake. Acacia swats his hands away and he drops his arms back down by his sides, sighing in exasperation. He does look nice. Even at the reaping, his clothes couldn't compare to the neat suit they probably had to shove him into. But now it looks as if he's being strangled, and his hair's so slicked back with gel it's almost frightening. I stretch up as high as I can, poking his hair experimentally. Yep. Solid as anything.

"You should keep it like that for the arena," I comment. "No one will be able to get through it."

Acacia laughs and he groans, but really, I don't think we're doing too bad. Our outfits are in no way humiliating. And I'm quiet, and not all that great at public speaking, but I can do nothing at this point but be myself and hope for the best. Besides, I learned a long time ago that sponsors and public opinion are great, but ultimately, it's up to you. In the long run, only you can protect yourself. I'm alone, but not in the truest sense of the word. I've got allies, but only if I need them.

The lights dim suddenly, the clapping starts, and then everything falls silent, just outside our little safe haven. Everything within it seems to disappear, when we all realize what's happening.

Right now, I'm convinced determination counts for a lot more than people believe.

* * *

**Terron Calvert ****— 18 years  
District Two Male**

* * *

This is all so dramatic.

It's a little bit amusing, but the other half that's irritating the hell out of me is currently taking over. All of the clapping and cheering in the audience is like a buzz in my ear, a fly that refuses to die. Personally, I'd just like to get my interview out of the way and go back to sleep. That, or shower. I don't know when my stylist thought Terron Calvert plus eyeliner would make a good combination, but here we are.

Camilla makes her way on-stage, the first of us to go up. She looks a little sick; that, or nervous. Didn't seem like she was the type, but the audience is overwhelming enough from back here. Luckily Cambria's got a few years of experience and her apparent snark reigns them back in within seconds. Rowdy as all hell when they want, but as soon as something midly interesting begins to happen, they're all attentive. Amazing.

There's really no point in me paying attention, not that I have the energy to do so. I lounge against the wall in the spot they instructed me to stand in, just behind Amara. Part of me's wondering what would happen if I just decided to wander off. Another part is just telling me to go for it. Really, what are they going to do? Yell at me? Berate me? It's not like I'm a stranger to that. If they tried anything else, I could just punch them. Most of the people here would crumble if I so much as touched them.

It's such a nice thing to think about. They act like I'm stuck here. If I wanted to go home, I would. Leave a trail of Capitolians behind me, but I would. They're lucky I volunteered for this, all of them.

Camilla's interviews end and she makes her way past me briskly, turning the corner like she's in a hurry to get somewhere. I shove my hands in my pockets and lean a bit off the wall, watching her go. The rest of the Careers stare after her. Even Estelle, who's making her way on-stage, pauses and looks over her shoulder. Maybe her interview went worst than I thought. Should've been paying attention. I could've gotten some precious blackmail information out of that.

Estelle's interview is interesting. I can't come up with much else of a descriptor other than brat, and she shows that off pretty well. Within seconds a blind person could tell Cambria's annoyed with her; her voice is strained when she asks questions and with every casual flip of her hair, Estelle makes it worse. Amara's next, dress shorter than I thought humanly possible, clinging to her like a second skin. The cat-calls are certainly something to behold. I deserve an award for not saying something, to be completely honest.

She leaves the stage and I begin walking without being told. Time to charm the masses.

The claps are even more deafening out here, although I guess it makes sense. I got a 10; they know what I'm here to do. I'm already in their good graces.

When I get close to Cambria I take her hand, bowing slightly to kiss it. She smiles, laughing along with the audience, but the look in her eyes says if I don't drop her hand now, she's going to track me down after this is over and castrate me. I can't help but smile back, easy, but I let her sit, placing myself comfortably in my own chair. This is already off to a good start.

"I suppose I don't have to ask you if you think you're going to win?"

"You tell me," I respond, directing it to her, but also to the audience. I turn the slightest bit, grinning towards them, and throw in a wink for good measure. It's nice to see my face magnified on all of these screens, and even nicer when I get the response I had hoped for, cheers and clapping. I try to block it out. Now's not the time to get irritated; I'm sure I'll have time to bitch about it later.

"I'll ask you a question that everyone seems to have the same answer for, then," Cambria starts. "Why are you here?"

The smile on her face is perfectly trained, like she practiced it for hours in the mirror. The look in her eyes, however, is wondering if I have a death wish.

"I'm not like everyone, Cambria. Most others volunteer for the glory of their District, to bring fame and glory into their otherwise boring lives. I don't care about everyone back home. Not about my parents, but for the people that took me in and raised me, gave me a reason to want to live. I was nothing. It took too long to build myself into something worth fighting for. There wasn't a person in the world who could've taken this away from me."

She looks more curious than I thought she'd be. Even the audience is nodding their approval. Every word of it's true, though, nothing fabricated to get people on my side. I've watched too many people lose this opportunity to do it myself.

"Then let me ask you this. What would you have done had District Two not been able to compete this year?

She's trying to rile me up; I can feel a low, simmering anger bubbling just below the surface of my skin. How cruel could they be, to starve the outer-Districts and then steal everything the ones closest to them have? What would I have done? Burned this whole place to the ground, no matter how impossible it would've seemed. I don't hate them. They're the ones who brought me here. But had they taken that away from me, none of them would be left standing.

"An option like that didn't exist in my mind. I'm meant to be here and so I am. Nothing else else matters, certainly not what could have been."

The truth is, if I wasn't here, there wouldn't be anything worth living for. The night school made me feel something other than worthless for the first time in my life, let me follow Xanthos around with a spear in the early hours of the morning, poking at him for the sake of it, Valora grabbing us both by the hair, daggers in her eyes but her hands gentle, threatening to bash our heads together if we didn't shut the fuck up and do something productive.

There really was no other option. I'm going to win. Xanthos will win next year. We'll show Valora that she still has something to work for in her life.

I let her guide me through a few other things; training, the alliance, but it's all mundane things. The things she'll ask all of us, waiting for something she can provoke and spread into wildfire. When the buzzer sounds, she lets me wave to the crowd, putting back on a charming smirk before walking back behind the stage, re-joining my allies. The Three girl takes my place, a scowl clear as daylight on her face.

There's always been that part of me that's doing it for myself. But there's also the few people left caring about in this world, the ones who showed me I could do anything, be anything, as long as I took control of my own life.

It's never been easy. Whether you're from Two or Twelve, if you want something, you have to fight for it.

In short? Shit's about to get real. And they'll have a lot of difficulty stopping someone who's been fighting his entire life from taking the crown.

* * *

**Arlo Brennan — 14 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

I wish it would be my turn already.

At first I paced, and then I skipped around, and then I sat down, jiggling my leg up and down until I nearly crushed Elora's foot. After that I stood up and stayed that way.

The thing is, I don't know why I'm like this. I'm never nervous. Then again, I've never spoken in front of a crowd this large. Or a crowd at all. I guess talking to people in every day life is a lot different than what I'm about to do. It's weird, though. I don't think the feeling that's swirling around in my stomach is something I've ever really felt before.

"I think I'm going cross-eyed watching you pace," Quill informs me. He looks calm. Elora looks calm. Why am I not calm?

"Don't be mean," Elora chides. I think if she weren't in a dress she'd threaten him with a headlock, or something, but she stays in her selected spot along the wall. Quill rolls his eyes and resumes his staring. I do my best to ignore him.

Is it the score? I don't think so. I didn't really care this morning about it and I still don't. I know a four isn't good by any stretch of the imagination and Quill and Elora both did much better, but scores aren't everything. The longer I think about it, the more clear it gets, though. All of the nerves in me, I don't think it's all focused on this moment. Sure, some of it is, because it's only natural that I be worried about looking bad in front of all those people.

Now, all I can think about is how tonight might be the last night I ever get to go to sleep, or have a midnight snack, or so many of these stupid things that I never thought of until right now. I know it's not right for me to win when everybody else here has so much more to fight for. That still doesn't mean I want to die.

I don't even register Elora leaving, or any of her interview, for that matter, so when someone approaches, ready to usher me up to the stage, I nearly jump three feet into the air, my heart ready to slam out of my chest. Quill gives me a look, one that I think's supposed to be encouraging but really isn't, briefly claps his hand onto my shoulder as I'm swept past him, and then I'm gone.

The lights are blinding. Which, being completely honest, isn't that much of a confidence booster. The only good thing I can focus on is that the lights are mostly obstructing my view of the audience, which is surely stretching back further than I can see, even if there were no lights. I have no choice but to approach Cambria - that or throw myself backstage and hope I'm faster than all of the overweight security guards, which doesn't sound too promising. I walk towards her, though, letting her take my arm and raise it like an introduction.

"It's alright to be nervous, kid," she hisses through her teeth, just loud enough for me to be able to hear it over the roar of the audience. "Just don't panic."

I blink in surprise, trying not to stare at her too long. Well, that's certainly more advice than I thought I was going to get over here. I swallow deeply, giving a barely perceptible nod of my head, and follow her lead when she sits, trying not to fidget in my seat. Think of right now, not tomorrow. That's what I have to tell myself.

"So, Arlo," Cambria begins. "How have you enjoyed your time in the Capitol?"

An easy question. One that she's asked a handful of people. I find myself smiling, a bit, legitimately grateful. She doesn't seem that bad. The one before her was terrible; horrendously loud and mean to boot. Probably why they fired her.

"It's really nice, actually," I huff, managing a little laugh. "A lot nicer than Nine. The food's probably the best part."

The audience chuckles. Guess I'm not doing that bad, or at least I hope not.

"And why do you say it's better than Nine?"

That's a harder one, one I might have to walk around carefully, but I know how to. I know Nine better than anything else in my life.

"I guess there's just not much to see in Nine. A lot of wheat fields. And most of you know by now that I'm an orphan, so the Training Center is a lot nicer to live in than the orphanage," I say honestly, but it's a little amusing, to be honest. "No offense, Meli, you did a great job running it!"

I direct that last bit to the only camera I can find, feeling the tiniest bit of confidence bloom back in me. I throw in a wave as well, seeing the audience smile out of the corner of my eye. I'm glad they approve, but it's true. Meli raised me like I was her own son, and she has four of her own. So even if the Capitol is in all sense of the word better than Nine, I can't forget it. It wouldn't be right.

"You seem like a nice kid, so I'm sure you have a lot of friends back home. How are you doing here?"

"Well, Quill and Elora are great. They put up with me all the time, so they're better than great, really. I'm really glad to have them with me," I say, hoping that doesn't sound awful to someone, somewhere, who wants them back and wishes they weren't here. I can practically see Elora's smile backstage from here, though. I want to fight for them, even if it won't mean much in the end.

Cambria questions me about alliances and I hope Quill doesn't mind, me mentioning just how grateful I am for him asking. He told me he didn't plan on keeping it a secret, if it was brought up, but I ruined the surprise.

We manage to cover a few more things, things that I forget the second I leave the stage, but just as the time's ticking away she manages to get one more thing in.

"Before we have to let you go, just one more thing. What do you have to fight for?"

They're probably all wondering what a kid like me wants to live for. I've got no family. No one to share the victory with, really, unless I just want to spread the wealth around. There's not one huge, defining feature that's screaming at me to fight, begging me not to give up. The thing is though, no one needs to know that. No one needs to know that I've already resigned myself to death, as much as the thought terrifies me to my very core. Not Meli, not Elora and Quill, not the Capitol.

So I take a deep breath, look her in the eyes, and lie.

"Everything."

* * *

I'll get around to responding to certain reviews eventually. Just know I'm grateful for them and keep it up, hey? Second last chapter to the Games, everyone! I feel like everything's getting progressively darker, though maybe that's because I know what's going to happen. Anyway, your thoughts are appreciate as always and I haven't said it lately, but thanks to all who continuously review or show your support because it means the world to me. Let me know what you thought about this chapter, you don't have much time left with all 24 of them.

As a forewarning, the next chapter is in all technicality Interviews, Part Two, but I've discovered I detest writing interviews. So it's more like vague interview/interview aftermath. Hope that isn't a bother.

Until next time.


	16. Learning to Breathe

Interviews, Part Two.

* * *

**Cassia Winters — 12 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

Of course I'm the last one.

I think they shoved Gera on-stage before me in the hopes that she'd be able to get through it without suffering another one of her breakdowns, or something. The thing is, she seems better. More calm and at ease. I didn't spend much time with her during training, if at all, but we talked this morning over breakfast and she seems fine. There's that lingering, lurking fear that I've seen in most people's eyes but she's managing to push it back.

I don't know why I can't be like that, but there's a larger part of me that knows exactly why. If I'm scared, then I've already admitted that I'm going to die, and I'm not ready to resign myself to that fact yet. Or ever, for that matter. I hope if I die, it's quick and painless and I don't see it coming. It's a nice thought, but looking around the hall, it's most likely a futile one.

Instead of that I try to focus on Twelve. Even thinking of home, as dreary and gray as it is, is better than thinking about tomorrow. I let my mind wander to Asher making sure all of us we're up in the morning, Micah cracking some terrible, over-used joke at breakfast just to see dad choke on his drink, Jay shaking his head fondly in silence, watching us all as he's always done, happy when we are.

I miss them. And as much as I try, I can't get that particular thought out of my head.

The end of my dress is tickling my knees. I frown and shake my legs out. I'm not used to dresses. Come to think of it, I've never had one on in my life. More often than not I wore old clothes of my brothers, pinned and tucked it in order for them to fit me. We don't have money for much else and I was fine with that. Dresses aren't good for adventuring, at any rate, and I'd only feel bad if I got them dirty.

When Gera steps down and I'm brought up, I can only remember to be myself. I got a 6, so they were confident enough to believe that I'm average. Maybe I am, but if I can give them an impression of me having a chance, here and now, then I'll do it.

To be completely honest, most of it's a blur. Cambria asks me about my family, which is an easy question but one that's hard not to go on a tangent about. She asks me about my score, and how I achieved something higher than some of the older kids. To be honest, I always thought I would get something average. The thing I'm more confused about is how some of them got such low scores. I know Gera's not completely useless, so why didn't she try for something more than a 3? It's confusing to me.

She ends off the interview asking me if I think I have a chance. Without hesitation, I tell her yes. I can see her eyebrows raise a little. She's not stupid, and neither am I. I know it's unlikely. The Capitol odds know it's more than that. At this point, it's worse than that. But I've already said admitting defeat is bringing me one step closer to death and I won't do it. Not until I'm looking it in the eye and have no other choice.

When I get off the stage, Estelle gives me a huge smile and squeezes my hand as I pass. I wish she didn't, but she annoys me. It would be another word, probably a meaner one, if I could think of it. Somehow she attached herself to me and declared us allies without really asking for my opinion on the issue. I know I should be grateful; she's older and stronger and somehow got a better score than me, but I can't help but wish it was someone else. Still, I smile back, detaching myself when I can, and return to where Gera and Ashara are standing, watching Cambria wrap up the evening.

"You did good out there. Definitely surprised them," Ashara comments, but she looks proud. She has a gentle hand on Gera's shoulder, who for once doesn't look like to run away. She's staring off onto the stage, but blinks, focusing on me, when she feels my eyes on her she. She doesn't smile in response to my own small one and returns her gaze to the other end of the hallway, eyebrows furrowed like she's deep in thought.

"We should be going, you girls should try and get some sleep tonight," Ashara tells us, turning Gera and her vacant eyes towards the direction of the elevator.

"Sounds good," I respond, but still turn back to catch Estelle's eye. She might be a few different kinds of annoying, but she's still my ally. She still wanted to stick with me when no one else did, and no matter who she is, I appreciate it. When she catches sight of me she gives a cheery wave and a last smile, ignoring the incredulous looks of the Careers around her.

I can't really blame them. We're the oddest of odd pairings. But at the rate they're going, they'll explode before we do, and so that's good enough for me.

Luckily Ashara waits for me amidst the crush of people, leading me back to the elevator where Gera's already waiting. The only other ones in the elevator with us are Terron and his own mentor, who regards Ashara with cool, even eyes. It's only then that I remember Ashara killed both of the Twos in her year, along with three others. It's admirable, almost. She did what she had to go to get back home and she's still managed to retain a part of herself, a part that the Capitol couldn't take away.

Soon enough they're off, leaving us in a blissful silence. At this point, we all know what's coming. Ashara can do no more for us than she's already done. Tomorrow we're on our own. And I'm ready for it.

"You alright?" I ask Gera quietly. She's staring out the elevator, watching the lights flash and the herds of bright-coloured people walk by, talking animatedly. Still excited, then.

"Of course," she responds, even quieter than my initial question. Somehow, her voice makes me think to leave it alone. I turn, though, and join her in watching over the Capitol, trying to see what I can. Tonight I'm going up, watching them all turn into specks beneath me, like they're nothing, and tomorrow I'll come back down, possibly for the last time. I'll get in a hovercraft and fly off to whatever hell they've created this year, and then I'll be rising, unable to escape unless I win.

Ashara puts a hand on each of our shoulder, a silent comfort that she knows we don't need by now but does anyway.

Tomorrow's everything to me. It's my life or my death.

Right now, I'm really determined for it to be my life.

* * *

**Falco Cavallere — 16 years  
District Ten Male**

* * *

To say that I want to throw up is a huge understatement. Literally giant. Humongous. A word that's bigger than that.

Which is ridiculous. I still have tonight. Nothing's going to happen until tomorrow. I have Abbie, and Dess, and I could have a chance if I'd only take a step back and think rationally for more than two seconds at a time. Abbie's more composed than I am, and I had jokingly teased that she was probably going to have to be the leader a few days ago, but I wasn't_ serious._

I'm most definitely serious now.

"If you're going to be sick can you not do it in my general direction?" Dess comments, looking at me worriedly. "No offense. I'd just rather not deal with that on top of everything else."

I nod. Try to breathe. The thing is, I'm usually beyond optimistic about things. Test scores. Doing well in some event or other. But this time I'm trying to be optimistic about my chances of survival over the next few days and saying it's different doesn't even come close to what it actually feels like.

"Maybe you should sit down?" Dess suggests. Without waiting for a response she grabs my shoulders and pushes me back until I can lean against the wall, sliding down it until I'm crouched with my head resting on my knees. Am I having a panic attack? I've never had one in my life, but like I said, I've never been in this situation before. At this point, with the amount of air, or rather lack of it, that's in my lungs, I wouldn't be surprised. I think Abbie went off to get Tacia and Barron. Either that, or she just disappeared, so I'm sincerely hoping it's the former.

Sure enough, not two minutes later, I hear more voices. Our mentors, so Abbie must've got them and come back for me. It's a wonder she's still sticking with me, at this point. This morning I almost dropped a weight on my foot and now I'm three seconds from a breakdown with no regard for who could be watching. Most of the floor has cleared out though. I do manage to look up, meeting all of their eyes.

"Lumin's waiting for you, Audessa," Tacia says quietly. "It's alright for you to go."

Dess looks hesitant, but gives me a smile and squeezes my shoulder lightly, waving at Abbie before trotting off down the hallway in search of her mentor. Now I feel like I'm a baby that needs to be looked after, and it's not a great feeling. I push myself back up the wall, albeit shakily, rubbing a hand over my face. All three of them are looking at me with varying amount of concern in their eyes.

"Sorry," I say nervously. "I'm being fucking stupid."

"You're going into the Hunger Games. It's fine to be scared."

I'm not scared, I'm terrified, although I don't think it's worth mentioning. They can probably tell.

"Yeah, and I'm going in there with you. Me and Dess," Abbie points out, shedding the nervousness in her eyes for something stronger. "We're doing this together."

Knowing that they're with me gives me mixed emotions. I could be bringing them down. I might have to watch them die. But I might also have to force myself to turn into something more, into someone capable of fighting. As long as I was in Ten, I could try to ignore everything else. Now it's like I'm being forced to grow up way too fast and completely against my will.

"I would say a good night's rest is probably the best thing for you," Tacia starts. "But I doubt that'll happen anytime soon. I didn't sleep a wink before mine. Can't blame you."

That makes me feel better. She didn't sleep, because she was just as scared as I am, and she won. Maybe it doesn't matter that I'm terrified. No one else but the people in this room have to know that.

"This one, however," Tacia says, bumping her shoulder into Barron's. "Slept like the living dead. Almost had to break his door down."

"Worth it. Slept in a cave for the next week, so."

I'm able to huff out a little laugh at Barron's response. They give me a little burst of confidence. Knowing that they care, for all my faults, is something that I didn't think I'd get to experience. Abbie cares too, in the way that she's looking at me with all the hope in the world. Like she doesn't know if I can make it, but wants me to anyway.

"C'mon, we'll go upstairs and we'll just wander around in circles. Play a game or something," Abbie tells me, grabbing my arm and looking ready to drag me off into the elevators. I crack a smile at that, feeling relief bubble up just under the surface of my skin. For the rest of tonight, I'll be okay. Tomorrow this could happen all over again but the memory of this will help. Seeing Dess before launch will help.

Abigail's words ring in my head. Together. We're doing this together.

Up on the 10th floor we change into something more comfortable. The dress shirt I had on almost gave me the impression that I was being restricted even more than I already was, so I'm glad to shed it. Eventually I wander back out into the living room, dropping down onto the arm of the couch. Abbie drops herself down next to me unceremoniously, leaning back against the cushions.

"Alright, so, I spy with my little eye—"

"Since when were we playing that?"

"Since I decided so. Anyway, I spy with my little eye something purple."

I blink, glancing around the room. "There are a million and a half things in here that are some shade of purple."

"Better get started, then," she says cheekily, lightly punching me in the arm. I roll my eyes, but I can't help but notice that it feels easy to breathe again, almost. Like in a matter of seconds just having people around me made things easier.

"That lamp over there?" I question, squinting my eyes. On second thought, that might be blue. Who knows anymore. Everything in here is too bright, even so late at night.

"Too obvious," she scoffs. I can't help but roll my eyes again, letting myself slip off the arm of the chair and onto the cushion below me with a thunk.

"Hey, Abbie?"

She hums, tilting her head the slightest to look at me, twisted in the position I've landed in.

"Thanks."

She grins. "You still haven't guessed right. Don't try to get out of this."

I sigh dramatically, but I meant it. Everything she's done, everything Barron and Tacia have done, I'll never forget it. I know she's just teasing, but I wish she'd just accept it, tell me that it's alright and I don't have to feel indebted to her for helping me through whatever crisis I encounter. I'm still impossibly scared, but I have my mom and dad, my sisters. Avis and Kellen. I'm not ready to leave any of them yet. Hell, I'll never be ready for that.

All I have right now is the fact that I'm breathing. I don't have my family to fall back on, not my girlfriend, not my best friend. I don't even have Dess, who's five floors down and probably sound asleep. But as long as I keep breathing, I know I'm alive.

That has to be good enough.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove — 18 years**  
**District One Female**

* * *

This isn't happening.

The thing is, I know exactly what's happening. When it happened even though it shouldn't have.

Six years. I spent six years training, walked through the doors a tiny, meek twelve year old and was finally chosen to volunteer. I worked harder than anyone to get here and I've still managed to screw something up.

I've managed to lock myself into an empty room. It's a little off-shoot of the prep labs, I think. There's a little bathroom off to the side and that's where I've been standing for the past five minutes, fingers locked white-knuckled around the porcelain edge of the sink, staring into the mirror like everything will magically fix itself. I look ragged. My hair is falling out of it's curls, there's the faintest shadow of make-up under my eyes, and my dress has somehow moved itself the slightest bit so it's off center.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck,_ fuck_. I could try to convince myself that's it's something else but I'll know the truth, and it'll just be harder to think about something else. For the past few days I convinced myself it was nerves. I don't usually get nervous, or anything of the like, but I'm in a new place with new people and the Games are tomorrow and I thought, _hey, it's only natural, you're fine._

There are footsteps outside the door and the general sound of hustle and bustle in the hallway. I freeze, leaning back from the sink and peering out of the door. It doesn't sound like anyone's trying to get in. Not yet, at least. I could have seconds to compose myself. In a half-hearted effort I smooth out my hair and twist until my dress is back in the right position. I'm fine. No one has to know. It'll only get worse if someone else does.

There's a light, yet insistent knock at the door. I go still again, not moving at all.

"Camilla?"

Sheridan. Fuck. Should have known she'd come looking for me; I'd do the same for her. And while I try to appreciate the gesture I really wish she'd just go away.

"Uh, Ross said he saw you go in here, just wanted to make sure you're okay?" Her voice floats through the door. "Your mentor's looking for you, I think."

Should have expected Royal, too. I feel the panic bubbling up again and frantically try to push it back again, deep down inside me where no one will know. I make my way carefully to the door, heels clicking obnoxiously loud on the tiled floor, but she doesn't say anything else. It's like I can feel her standing there, just waiting to make sure I'm doing fine.

"Sheridan?" I ask quietly, on the other side of the door. "Is there anyone else with you?"

"Nope, just me." If she notices the shakiness in my voice, she chooses not to comment on it. Bless her. Carefully I turn the lock and open the slightest bit. She gives me a smile when she sees me, but I lean out and grab her arm, all but dragging her through the door and into the room. Her eyes widen but she stays silent still, patient while I re-lock the door and turn to face her.

"So I'm taking that as a no?" She questions, tilting her head to examine me. I shake my head.

"Well, it's alright if you're nervous. Even I'm nervous. But we'll do fine tomorrow, I promise—"

"I think I'm pregnant."

Sheridan's mouth is still hanging open, mid-sentence, but she quickly snaps it shut, eyes nearing the size of dinner plates. My hands are shaking.

"I— what?"

"Do I need to repeat that, because seriously—"

"No, no, sorry. I just ... are you serious?"

I don't trust myself with words so I just nod, feeling something like a sob threatening to break out of my chest. I signed up for a lot of things; death, destruction, victory, but I didn't sign up for this. There's nothing in the world that could have prepared me for this.

"But you volunteered?" Sheridan asks, clearly confused.

"I didn't know. I still don't know, not for sure, but at the same time I just _know_. I can't explain it."

If Sheridan's anything she's calm and composed and while she still looks it, the loss of words she has is written clear as daylight across her face. I don't blame her. The only thing that I can think of saying is all rushed and jittery and probably not even English. I do know, though. I don't need a test to tell me. I've felt off for a week, now. I threw up yesterday morning and almost did before my interview. Twice. There's too many signs for it to be anything else.

"Do you know who?" She questions quietly. I can see her reserving the judgement in her eyes.

"Yeah," I say, but it's barely over a whisper. "My best friend."

My best friend who insisted on throwing me a huge party when we found out the Academy chose me to volunteer and invited half the damn District, who drank a little too much and told even more jokes than he usually does just to make me smile and laugh and have a little fun, for once in my life. And when we woke up in the morning he laughed and said it didn't matter, because we were still best friends and I was going to win the Hunger Games and he'd be nothing but a peasant at my feet. I remember shoving him in the shoulder, laughing, telling him it would never happen and we'd gotten up and got dressed like nothing had ever happened. That was Perseus'_ job_, to shove out all the stress and the awkwardness and just make me feel like nothing else mattered in the world.

Well, it happened. And now there's proof of it. Really obvious proof.

"Are you going to tell anyone else?"

"No," I snap, more harshly than I intended. "You can't tell anyone."

"I won't, don't worry. Promise," she says earnestly, looking very much like she's temped to hug me or take my hand to comfort me in some way. She goes silent, letting me go through the range of emotions I'm feeling. Anger. Regret. Absolute, downright horror that takes over more than anything else.

"Camilla, look at me," Sheridan says calmly, but there's an amount of strength in her voice that makes me look up. "We're gonna go in there tomorrow. We're gonna do what we have to do, what we've been taught, what we've always planned. This matters, we can't say it doesn't. So fight harder for it."

I nod, almost frantically, and reach out on a whim and take her hand. She lets me squeeze the life out of it, letting me feel any amount of insecurities and terror for this moment. After this, I have to shut down every other emotion, go out there, and win. Sheridan takes her other hand and straightens out a few pieces of my hair, trying to smile solely for my benefit, I think.

"You ready to go?"

I pause, giving myself one last moment. She's right, this does matter. More than I'd like it to, because I've got bigger problems, now. But I've wanted this, wanted this victory and this feeling of triumph for my life for so long. Now if I win, I'll step into even more uncharted territory, but I'll have done it. That's all I can allow myself to think about right now.

Tomorrow morning. The victory. Going home.

Sheridan's eyes meet mine when I look up, and this time I manage a smile of my own.

"Yeah. Let's do this."

* * *

Last chapter.

I contemplated doing a launch chapter but really, I just want to get straight to the point. Next chapter is the bloodbath, and there's no backing out now. While you're all still here I'd just like to give everyone a massive, massive thank you for sticking with this story up until this point. I love every one of these tributes, all 24 of them, and whether they die in the next chapter or 10 from now, just now that I will never not be grateful for the support I've gotten so far. I haven't been doing too bad for a first-time SYOT writer and I hope I can live up to your expectations. Before we go, anyone up to answering some questions?

Who do you want to see die in the bloodbath (as unlikely as it is) and who do you think will die in the bloodbath (predictions)? I'd love to see what you guys are thinking before it happens. As well, based on all of the pre-gaming, I've added predicted placements to everyone's blog spots. Just for fun, don't take it to heart.

Anyway. Until next time.


	17. Hearts Under Fire

Bloodbath.

* * *

_Coiled in trenches,  
Lost in the fanfare._

_Run for cover we are,  
Hearts under fire and we're,  
Going under if we can't be at peace._

_Soldier won't you come back home._

* * *

**Ferrox Mervaine — 28 years  
Head Gamemaker  
Main Control Room: Level A**

* * *

"Everything's good to go?"

"'Course. If something wasn't, might as well resign right now."

Ferrox rolls his eyes, leaning against the chair he hasn't occupied since he walked in here. Cyrus lets out a light chuckle at his own words, lounging back and crossing his hands over his stomach.

"Three minutes, 28 seconds to launch, sir."

He gives a thumbs up to Resani, who's sitting three spaces down, watching the countdown on the silver-plated watch strapped across his wrist. The screens are almost all focused on the Cornucopia and surrounding inside area - only a few cameras are focused on the outside, in the doorways, and through the trenches. They point of views will be switched soon enough, though. Ferrox glances up, looking around the room, eyebrows furrowing.

"Excuse me, Miss Carmine, you aren't allowed to be in here!" He yells dramatically. Half the room turns to look at him.

Cambria throws him the finger from where she's leaning over Sona's shoulder across the way, examining one of the screens that was just brought up. He tries to glare and fails half-way through, Cyrus' chuckle growing in volume.

"Who even let her in here?" Ferrox grumbles down at him. Cyrus pats him on the arm, clearly amused.

"No idea. Not like you mind."

"Stop insinuating things, you traitorous bastard. You're on my team, not hers."

Cyrus shakes his head. Really, though, he doesn't mind. Why is that a crime? Why does everyone have to pick on him for it? If you ask him, they're all mean. Next season he should look for a new gamemaking team. One who treats him better and not like a five year old with a terrible crush.

Which he isn't, thank you very much.

"One minute fifteen seconds. Tributes are in their tubes. Ascending in t-minus 10 seconds."

Ferrox straightens, watching the screen attentively. The blood splattered along the walls is still a bit too much flair for his tastes. He wonders if the tributes will think the same thing. He hasn't taken any bets, not on this bloodbath. The whole team has some vague guesses, same as himself, but he's not a gambling man, at least now when money's involved. He gambles with time and luck and whatever he can get his hands on.

The tributes appeared in close-quarters. The outfits this year were simple; black cargo pants with a variety of pockets, paired with a long, dark coat that hung to mid-thigh. The combat boots that laced up to mid-calf were nothing to wave off. Other than that, there were pairs of supple, fingerless leather gloves, a sturdy wide belt, simple underclothes that wouldn't provide much in the way of warmth. Ferrox banked on them being smart. If not, well, he wasn't going there yet.

"You ready?"

Ferrox very nearly jumped. Cambria appeared at his right shoulder like she'd been there all along. He couldn't but roll his eyes at her expectant expression.

"Of course. Resani, start the countdown," he says, taking a step back until the two of them were shoulder-to-shoulder, half watching the screens, the other eye on each other. "I'm always ready."

* * *

**Gera Castprince — 16 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

This is it.

This is the moment everyone's been waiting for. Me included.

I don't know where we are. In a room of some sorts, a large, spacious one, but with a low ceiling. It's all made of metal and concrete overlapping. Even the Cornucopia in the middle is of the same material, rusting red, although maybe it's the blood splatters doing the trick. There are tables and cases scattered along the edges of the room, with what looks like a variety of maps among other papers. In the middle of each of the four walls there's a wide open door. Just beyond the edge I can see a dirt path leading up and away from it; the edges of a gray sky. The whole room looks as if people had been here, recently, and then fled before they had a chance to grab their things.

I'm oddly at peace. This is it. I know what I'm going to do. It took me a while, but eventually, after the first night of training while I was lying awake staring at my ceiling, I figured it out. And I think it's the best thing I've decided to do in a long time. Definitely one of the easiest decisions I've ever made.

I chance a look around me. The tall Six boy is on my left, the smaller blonde girl from Five on my right, braid draped over my shoulder. Her eyes flicker briefly to mine, panic-filled, and then being to search out her allies.

Is it bad that I'm okay with this? They threw me on a train, onto a chariot, and now into an arena, and there's not a part of me that wants to fault them for it. They're not all bad people, just doing their jobs. This year I just happened to be a part of it. In a way, it's a relief. They made me look at my life in a different perspective and figure out what I'm going to do with it.

I have no allies. No one who will really care. I don't even have a good score to my name, not that I expected it. My eyes fall on the clock just above the Cornucopia. 47 seconds left. Not much time to think, but I'll take what I can get.

For a moment, I hope my mom and dad aren't watching. They've already lost too many kids. They shouldn't have to lose me too. Besides, I know Gwen and Jaiden are watching from wherever you go when you die. Somewhere good, I'd imagine. That's enough.

Cassia's about eight people away from me, staring. From the Cornucopia, to the supplies settled between, to the One girl, and then to me. I smile at her. And that's when her eyes change to something darker. Like she knows.

_Don't_, she mouths. Beside her, the Eight boy looks between us. For a moment all I can see is the confusion on his face, and then the realization that bleeds into it. Even he looks like he's about to start screaming at me. I look away from her and at the ground below me. Mostly dirt, with some rusted panels. It won't be that bad. I shuffle to the edge of my plate. My smile wavers, just the slightest bit, and I glance at the clock again. Just under thirty.

I look out the door again. At the gray sky. The last time I'll see it, I guess. I'll be with them, though. And that's alright.

"Spens, _get down!_"

_Causing chaos until the end. You go, sweetheart._

I smile for real, this time. The only regret I have is that I don't get to hear the explosion.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour ****— 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

I'm halfway to my plate when the explosion rocks around the room.

When Kiero yells, I don't think, I just do. I learned pretty quick that when Kiero suggests something it's usually a pretty good idea, and dicking around isn't your best option. The force of it nearly knocks me off my own plate. It would have, if I had been standing. Now I'm kneeling on it, crouched over, hands locked around the edge of the plate. The warm, wetness of blood is splattered across the side of my face, my entire right side, really, and God knows what else.

Someone's crying. Through the cloud of debris in the air I can see it's the Five girl. I don't even know how she's still on her plate. The pair from Ten are yelling at her from across the room, but I can barely see them. I turn my head the slightest bit, looking straight towards Kiero. The panic's still going full-blown in his eyes, but he's still solid. He saved my life. He could've let me die, probably should have, and he didn't.

I nod my head towards the door behind him. He glances over his shoulder, looks back to me, and nods. Elora's about four down from him, staring at the spot where the Twelve girl used to be. Once I catch her eye she follows my gaze towards the door and nods as well, something like steely determination in her eyes.

Seven seconds. I should probably get up.

It's when I'm rising that I see the barely there flashes of cold steel right at the back of the Cornucopia, hanging on the wall. Okay. That could be a problem. More than a problem, because they haven't given us guns in over ten years. Guess we're about to find out why.

The Tens are still screaming for their ally to get up. It's kind of hard to focus on that, though, when the signal horns deafen everyone in the room, the noise ricocheting off the metal walls in every direction.

I launch myself off my plate in what has to be the least graceful way ever, rocketing over to the center of the Cornucopia as fast as I can. Clearly, I'm not the only one with the same idea. The pack is all running for it, but so are the Sevens, and the girl from Ten is close enough that she's contemplating it. I can't even see Elora and Kiero anymore.

I make it to the center the same time the Two guy does, who slams into me at full force just before I reach the back wall. We go down in a sprawling heap in the middle of the Cornucopia, my face slamming full-force into the ground. I grab the first thing my hand lands on, a decently heavy backpack, and swing it in what I hope is his direction. His fist comes crashing down just next to my head and he goes flying off me from the force of the hit against his shoulder. I kick my leg out for good measure in the direction of the ribs, and I'm hoping the harsh _thud_ I hear hurts him enough to keep him away for a few seconds. Gripping the wall, I lunge to my feet, keeping the backpack on my arm for good measure, and rip one of the pistols off the wall. It goes in my belt, a second one following seconds later. Someone screams just as I grab a third and I can't help but whip around, the gun still grasped in my hand. The Two guy's gone, after easier targets, but I turn just in time to see Hariwin's sword plunge right through Eitta's stomach and out his back. He's dead before he hits the ground, blood splaying across the Cornucopia's walls.

Kiero and Elora have to be on the opposite side of the horn, that's where I told them to go, but I can still hear him yelling like he saw it happen. Hariwin turns, ripping the sword out and grins at me like he was hoping it would be me next.

"Knew you were gonna be problem," he hisses, stalking towards me. Well, this can't be good.

I shove the gun in my hand in the first pouch I see in my backpack and heave it over my shoulder. I grab another one off the wall. That's four. There are eight total. One for each of the Careers, if the pack was intact. There's a spear in the pile of weapons parallel to where Hariwin is now. It's the closest thing to a staff I can see, and probably my best bet.

On a whim, I fire a single shot at his head. He dodges, just in time and lunges towards me, sword tip first, absolute fury written across his face. I dive to the right, scrabbling for the spear with the ends of my fingers. He's already swinging, though, and I grab the spear too slow and miss his head, just managing to swipe the edge of the blade across his cheek. It draws blood, dripping down his face in a steady stream, but it's not enough. By now I'm half on the ground and unless I perform a really successful barrel roll, it's not looking good.

"Hey, asshole!"

I just barely glance over my shoulder, see a mess of brown hair and a curved blade, and I panic until I see Hariwin's gaze slide to the person and I realize it's _Elora_. In the split second he looks over I lunge at his feet, ducking under his arm as he realizes what just happened and swing the spear in his direction. The flat side of the blade cracks into the side of his head and he drops like his legs have been cut out from him, blood spilling down from the wound on his temple.

"Is he—?"

"Go!" I yell, shoving the gun in my hand into hers and using my other arm to shove her in the shoulder. He's not dead. But I will be if he wakes up. Elora ducks around the right side of the Cornucopia and I sprint after her. Hopefully Kiero's still waiting.

He is. But he's also dodging just out of reach of the Four girl, who keeps going after him with a deep persistence. When she hears our footsteps she evidently decides that even though Kiero's got a sword, the people with the guns are the bigger problem. I rip one of the guns out of my belt, not even bothering to fire as I keep the spear gripped tightly in my right hand. Elora gets the message this time to not get involved and ducks around her, grabbing Kiero's arm and racing just to the edge of the door.

I pause, trying to regain my breath. Across from me the Four girl pauses, longsword in one hand, a knife the length of her forearm in the other. Her dark hair is falling into her eyes, but she doesn't seem to care. She just stares back at me, both of us frozen waiting for the other to move.

There are screams behind me. General commotion and chaos and the clash of blades. Elora and Kiero won't leave without me, guarding the doorway like it's their last hope.

But I'm not moving.

* * *

**Finnea Mason — 17 years**  
**District Seven Female**

* * *

It's absolute chaos.

Someone's screaming. I ignore it. I reach down and scoop up a lone backpack lying at the edge of the room, sliding half along the ground to grab a knife I see lying not five feet away. The screaming gets louder, and then there's one, final one that I imagine I'll be hearing even when I'm sleeping, so horrific and pain-filled I never want to hear it again. It's not until I catch sight of the Ten girl, almost in tears, that I see her ally, the one directly next to the explosion, on the ground with a perfectly thrown knife in her shoulder. She must've collapsed to the ground out of sheer pain.

The One girl that threw it, Camilla, I think, has her face carefully blank, yet determined. She throws another knife and it buries itself in the girl's throat. Her last choked, cut off gurgles are barely audible over the rest of the chaos, but I keep seeing the blood spilling out of her throat, the faint glazed over look in her eyes as she slipped away in the last second. The tear tracks are still fresh on her face.

The Ten girl gets practically dragged outside by her partner, who looks even more terrified. They're gone in the next second. It doesn't look like they had much. Camilla looks towards me and readies another knife but I duck out of sight, behind the Cornucopia. The little Eleven kid slips past me, a backpack over his arm, and nearly trips out the door in his haste to get out.

I hear another yell, another girl, and round the corner just in time to see Porter bury an axe in the thigh of the other One girl. It's not near enough to kill her but I can't help but mimic the shock on her face as she goes down, barely seeing it happen. He rips some of the supplies off the ground by her feet. Acacia's off about 15 feet away from him, moving towards the doors. Neither of them see Sheridan rip the spear across Porter's side just before he races off after her. He _screams, _easily one of the worst things I've heard in my life, and I want to throw up. He's on the ground now, but very much alive. It wasn't deep enough to kill him, but there's no way he's getting up in time, with Sheridan looming over him

Acacia turns and meets my eyes over the pair of them the same time I start running.

No Seven left behind. That's what he called it over dinner, laughing and threatening to steal Acacia's pudding if she didn't laugh at one of his jokes. And right then I know it's true. I'm not leaving him.

Acacia produces a knife from seemingly nowhere and sends it flying. It misses Sheridan's head by a few inches but it's enough to send her a few feet away, not wanting it to get any closer. I see the plan in Acacia's eyes just before she yells at me to go to him. She quite literally slams into Sheridan, ducking under the spear she raises and takes her to the ground in a tangle of limbs and sharp objects. I get to Porter in the next second. He's got to be twice the size of me, but he still has the frame of mind that's screaming_ get up, we need to go._ He's got so much pain written across his face it's a wonder he can get his feet under him, even with me hauling him up. I get his arm across my shoulder and wrap my own around his waist, feeling blood slip through my fingers when I clasp my fingers over the wound in his side.

Acacia and Sheridan are still half on the ground, scrabbling for weapons, but Sheridan's clearly got the upper hand. She's taller and stronger and infinitely better trained. I can't do anything, not half-holding Porter up. All I can do now is get him up and hope she follows in the next minute.

We're almost through the doorway when Acacia yells something behind us and I don't even turn in time, just feel her slam against both of our backs and practically push both of us out the door single-handedly. All of us go down in a heap just outside the door, Porter groaning in a mixture of pain and inconvenience, and all I see inside is Sheridan readying the spear with one hand. It's going to be on us in mere seconds. Less than that.

Acacia lunges off me and half-off Porter, scrabbling for the door. Her foot catches it at the last second and she sends it slamming shut, swinging off it's hinges before it's crashes shut. I hear the solid thump as Sheridan's spear buries itself in the door on the other side, a second too late. Acacia leans bodily against the door, already sliding up it and back to her feet. There's blood trickling down the side of her face and a cut on her shoulder, though it doesn't look deep.

I look up at her and then down at Porter, who's still got a hand pressed against the wound on his side.

"Fuck," he says weakly.

I can't help but agree.

* * *

**Quill Grove ****— 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

To say I'm panicking is a huge, huge understatement.

I know where Elora is, but she's not who I'm looking for. I have a backpack over my shoulder, a knife in my belt, and another in my hand. The Three girl is doing a pretty good job of evading Sheridan. She gets cornered and quite literally hops up on one of the tables, darting towards a window at the other end of it.

Estelle and her tiny ally are doing ... I don't really know. Running around in a general state of chaos and confusion, although Twelve looks more annoyed and self-assured about getting out of there as quick as possible. The One girl is trying to go after them but there's something in her that's hesitating. Maybe it's half-hearted District loyalty. The other One girl dragged herself off into a corner away from the general stamping of feet, trying to stem the blood flowing from the wound in her leg and the Four boy is with her, looking concerned and worried and way too not-involved in the killing thing. I'd warrant he looks a little sick.

I can hear the clash of blades from Spens and the last Four. Which leaves Arlo and the Two guy unaccounted for.

Oh, God.

Please.

I look around the other side of the Cornucopia. Nothing. I dart back the way I came, looking around the edge of it towards the opposite end of the room and instantly want to stop breathing, or scream, but nothing's going to come out.

Arlo's in the far corner, almost completely backed into it. The Two guy is stalking towards him, slower than he has to, like he's drawing it out for his own amusement. I feel sick. Like I'm watching it in slow-motion. Arlo looks around him, at me, and that hurts the most. He looks scared, but not in the way he should be. Not scared to die but scared to leave the world, leave me, leave everything he knows.

He tries to smile. I see it just before the Two guy's machete buries itself halfway through his neck. Arlo slips down to the ground just as the blade gets ripped out, splattering both of them with a fine layer of blood. He uses his pant leg to wipe the blood off the machete, drenching himself in it even more than he already is.

And I stood there. I didn't do anything. I still can't move, like I'm locked in paralysis, or someone's physically grabbing me and holding me here. Wait, what—

"Quill! _Quill!_"

Elora. That's Elora, but it sounds like I'm underwater and she's screaming at me from above it. Both of her hands are on my shoulder from behind and she's dragging me backwards, frantic in her movements. Something's shoved into my hands and I don't even really recognize what it is, only see the movement as she shoves me past Kiero and out the door and tells me to _run_.

I don't know what else to do but listen to her.

It's hard to run, when I feel like I can't breathe. I look down and almost flinch when I see there's a gun in my hands. She gave me a gun and told me to run. Basically told me to live and keep fighting. I slam to a halt, bracing a hand on whatever's next to me. I could be anywhere right now, for all I know.

Repeat those words. Live. Keep fighting. Arlo's dead but he didn't want me to be. If he died with a smile on his face it's because he wanted me to know it's okay. Because he saw Elora coming for me before he was even dead. I look down at the gun, again. My hand's shaking. I don't know when that started. I've never shot one in my life, never even been near enough to one to really have a chance at it. I press down on the little button on the side and slide back the safety on top of the barrel. I get a sharp _click_ in response.

I look back behind me. I can't hear anything, anymore. I'm alone, but I'm alive.

It's more than some of them. More than Arlo.

* * *

**Astrid Lucretius — 18 years  
District Four Female**

* * *

I move first.

I was told all through training to never move first unless you were sure. And right now, I'm not sure. But all I can see is Hariwin lying at the entrance to the Cornucopia, looking very much dead if not for the rise and fall of his chest, and the guy in front of me did it.

To be fair, Hariwin probably deserved it. But I need this. I need to kill him. I'm going to. So I move first.

He doesn't get the time to fire off a shot before I dart at him. He hops out of the way just out of reach of my sword. I'm pretty sure I saw a trident in the horn but I didn't have time to get to it before people started running at me from all directions. He blocks the swing of my knife I aim at him with the spear, the blades clashing together with a sound that rings around the room.

I don't know what the rest of my allies are doing. I don't care, though. I don't want help nor do I need it.

He's fighting back a lot harder than I expected him to. His nose is bleeding and I don't even think he realizes it. I know Terron got to him, and Hariwin tried, and he's still up and circling me, looking for a chink in whatever armor he thinks I've got on. I spring at him before he finds one, darting under his arm when he swings the spear, sending the knife in a wide arc towards his back. It only manages to nick him, a drop of blood on the tip of my knife and a ragged tear in the back of his coat. He barely notices that as well, if at all.

Now that I'm facing this way, I can see both of his allies, hovering by the door. They've both got decent sized packs and weapons. I thought I saw the girl with a gun, but it's gone now. Now that we've separated he's got one aimed at me again, but he's either reluctant to shoot me point blank or doesn't want to waste bullets when he knows I could move in time.

That's when I get an idea.

I could get behind him in time. Go for them. If he charges after me, he'll let his guard down for a second, I'll turn around, and he'll never even know. He probably won't even have a second to recognize that he's dying. I just need to distract him for a second.

"You should give up," I say conversationally, stretching out my arms like this is a leisurely training session. He doesn't respond, watching the movements of my arms and the sword in my hand.

"No?" I ask him, turning the slightest bit. He mirrors my movements. Good. I've got almost a perfect path to the two behind him now. I smirk the slightest bit, whirling the sword in my hand and pointing it back towards him. He barely looks fazed.

"I'm sorry about this."

There's the slightest bit of confusion in his eyes and that's all I need, moving as quick as I can around him, feeling his hand just barely graze against the hood of my coat as he moves to stop me. His allies are unprepared. The guy yells something unintelligible, something I don't make sense of over the rhythmic slamming of my feet against the ground and the pounding of my heart in my chest. The girl's braid goes flying as she whips around, raising the sickle in her hand, but I can see it in her eyes. She's not a killer.

Something locks around my wrist, fingers tightening around my skin to the point of pain when I'm five feet from them. It feels like someone's ripped a knife through my skin when something inside my arm gives a sharp _crack_, the offending hand turning my arm as I go down. I can't help the scream that erupts from my throat, feeling like my whole arm's been shattered. I'm half-collapsed from the pain, tears burning the corners of my eyes. I'm still being held up, though, by my arm that has to be broken. Spens has his fingers locked white around my wrist, spear slung over his back and gun in his free hand. There's barely-there fury etched into the edges of his expression, something I've never seen before.

Around his side I see Sheridan turn, and then Ross. He yells something, standing up from his crouched position at Amara's side. His spear isn't bloody though. He isn't a killer either, not yet, and Sheridan won't get here in time.

Through the burning in my eyes I look up at Spens, his shadow falling over me, refusing to let me fall to the ground. His allies have backed up but they aren't leaving, practically clutching at each other in the doorway. The fury's gone. Now it's just cold detachment, edged with the slightest bit of fear. Fear for what almost happened. For what would have happened if he wasn't quick enough.

I don't even get time to think. The last thing I see is the barrel of the gun, leveled at my eyes.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor ****— 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

_Bang._

Something, I don't know what, startles me out of my sleep. Sleep? How long have I been sleeping for and what the fuck is that racket? Someone's yelling? And who in their right mind slams their door that hard this early in the fucking morning?

I blink open my eyes. Not a ceiling. Metal. Cornucopia?

Wait. Cornucopia.

I sit up way too fast and it feels like someone stabbed me in the side of the head. Blood's dripping down my face. I turn, shuffling across the dirt ground, squinting. The pathetic little Eight kid is dead on the floor maybe ten feet away. Right, I killed him. Then what the fuck happened? I went after volunteer asshole. He had a spear and guns. Lots of guns.

The spear's triggering something, though. And then all of a sudden I can feel it cracking against my head all over again, barely conscious when I hit the floor and the hard-packed dirt sending the last of reality spiraling away. When I blink again, I realize it's silent. Upon further examination I realize I can't see anyone, no matter how hard I squint.

Did I miss the fucking bloodbath because someone decided I needed to take a nap?

I lurch to my feet, ignoring the dizziness, and stumble out of the Cornucopia, snatching up a sword just in case. Amara's sitting on the ground, hands clasped over her mouth, leg a bloody mess. The other four are crouched over a body in the far corner, right next to a closed door. I distinctly remember that being open before. I look around again. Three bodies. A splatter and huge mess where the Twelve girl was.

Realization slaps me in the face, and it's like the spear for a third time.

I practically launch myself over to them, nearly sending Ross to the ground when I push him aside. I see the tail-end of Sheridan just closing Astrid's eyes, face sprayed with blood, perfect hole in the center of her forehead. Camilla steps back, pushing a hand through her hair, and turns away. Ross looks like he's contemplating throwing up. Gunshot to the forehead. Only one person could've done it - there were eight guns and only four are left in the Cornucopia.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," I snarl, nearly ripping the door off it's hinges after I step over Astrid's rapidly cooling body. Someone grabs my arm, Sheridan, I think, and I shrug it off, fighting the wave of dizziness that rips through my head. More hands grab me, stronger ones, and Terron's all but hauling me back through the doors, struggling against me.

"Dude, slow the fuck down—"

"HE FUCKING KILLED HER, AND YOU'RE SAYING THAT?"

Everyone freezes. Ross steps backwards until he's closer to Amara than me. I notice Camilla keeps a hand on the knives in her belt, looking between me and Sheridan. It's her who shoulders around me without hesitation and slams the door shut again.

"We're staying here," she says firmly. "We'll get him later. Not now."

I'm ready to snap her neck. Snap all of their necks, really. I'm shaking with adrenaline and horrific anger and I really just need to kill something. The Eight kid wasn't enough. He didn't even fight back, just saw me and accepted it. It was disgusting. I pick up the nearest object, a metal water bottle, and hurl it at the wall, sending it clattering to the ground with a loud clang. Everyone ignores it, or they choose not to comment.

Astrid's dead. None of them did anything. Amara can't walk, and I was unconscious. What the fuck is this? This isn't how it's supposed to be going. Only five people are dead and one of them is an ally, the cannons ringing out seconds later as if to prove my point. I clench my hands together, trying to keep myself from punching the nearest person in the face. Somehow I don't think Ross would take kindly to that.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Sheridan and Camilla pick up the Nine kid between them, gently, like he's fucking sleeping, and carry him out the nearest open door. Terron scoots around me and crouches down next to Astrid's body, picking her up with an amount of care I didn't think he possessed, following them out the door. Sheridan comes back in for Eight, and I grab the Five girl by the arm, yanking Camilla's knives out of her arm and throat and tossing them on the floor. I all but drag her out of the room, dumping her in the dirt, and make to go back inside. They'll deal with it.

"Uh, you guys might wanna see this."

Outside the door is a little path, one that leads into what looks like a trench. Just up ahead it branches off into two separate ones. Terron's clambered his way up the dirt and mud until he's standing above the path, shielding his eyes from the meager of amount of sun that's peeking out from behind the clouds. With an irritated sigh I haul myself up next to him. The girls clamber up behind me and Ross comes out with Amara on his back, avoiding the wound on her leg as he holds her up.

We're dead set in the middle of open land. From the outside, the starting area is very clearly a bunker, all made up of towering concrete and metal fragments pushed haphazardly together. Strands of barbed wire and fences can be seen in random places. Stretched out in all four directions, though, is a fucking maze of tunnels and ditches, all interconnected. There's one leading off from each doorway into the mess of them, but it stretches out so far I can't even see the end of it. For all we know, it goes on forever.

"Fucking trench warfare," Camilla comments. "Brilliant."

"Well, at least we know what the guns are for," Terron comments idly. We all turn to stare at him. He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"What?"

* * *

**24th. Gera Castprince, District Twelve Female.  
23rd. Eitta Wills, District Eight Male.  
22nd. Audessa Paxton, District Five Female.  
21st. Arlo Brennan, District Nine Male.  
20th. Astrid Lucretius, District Four Female.**

* * *

As you can see, POVs are gonna be weird from here on out. The length depends on how much is happening. Never fear, you'll still see everyone, but how much they get depends on where they are in the story. It'll all balance out eventually. I think.

I said it last chapter but I'll say it again. Every character I got I loved and appreciated just as much as the next. If your character died in this chapter, I have reasoning for it. One of the big ones is that I didn't have anywhere for them to go. Their plot ended here and for what I have planned, they didn't fit in with the rest of them. In Arlo's case, and even Dess' and Astrid's, their allies had a lot to do with it. The last one is quite possibly you never reviewed and I just had zero idea if you were even reading the story, because yes, that does matter. They didn't die for no reason, and if you want a more specific one, I'll give it to you. Just ask, and don't be afraid to. Blog's been updated as well. Anyway, thank you for all of your characters, this was so much fun to write, and really, this is only the beginning.

Until next time.


	18. Dark Places

Arena, Day One.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years**  
**District Eight Male**

* * *

I learn really quickly that it's a good thing the three of us are all damn good runners.

Elora's a few paces in front of me, keeping up a steady jog. I somehow ended up in the middle with Spens a few feet behind me. I glance back every so often, behind us, and them at him. His nose stopped bleeding, but it's dried all down the front of his face and across his lips. My legs are splattered with it from when the bullet came out the back of Astrid's head. Thinking about it makes me want to throw up, because then I think about the burst of blood from Eitta's back when the sword went straight through it, and Elora's arms stopping me full force from going after him.

Speaking of, I nearly slam into her back as she stops suddenly. Spens nearly sends us both over from behind, his boots slipping in the mud.

"Which way?" Elora pants. We're at a crossroads. I step forward, peering down both sides, and then ahead of us. They all look pretty similar. Only difference is the left one has the slightest slope downwards, disappearing off into the distance. Shelter, maybe, or at least we're farther away from the Cornucopia.

"Be my guest," Spens says, gesturing down the trench. I want to smile, but it doesn't feel right, so I just take off running again down the left side. It's good to know that they trust me. That they're okay with me taking them somewhere because they're confident in my abilities.

Elora does slam into my back when the cannons go off a few minutes later, grasping frantically at my shoulders to keep herself up. The three of us pause, glancing around like we'll magically see something, as five cannons go off.

"Twelve girl. Arlo, Astrid," I say calmly. "Eitta."

It hurts. It hurts a lot more than I ever want to admit. I'm torn between knowing it was for his own good, because it was going to happen anyway, or telling myself that I should have saved him. At least tried to.

"Who else?" Elora asks.

"Five girl," Spens says quietly. He all but slides to the edge of the trench and hauls himself up a bit, looking over the edge and back where we came from. "No sign of anyone. We good to stop for a minute?"

Both of us nod. Elora drops herself down on a crate that's half buried in the trench wall and I crouch down on the ground, pulling my backpack off my shoulders and dropping my sword to the ground next to me. As I'm unzipping my bag Spens reaches across the gap between us and offers a gun to me, holding the barrel. I take it hesitantly, examining it, and swallow hard. If he notices my hesitance, he doesn't say anything.

We've each got one. Quill has one, and if what Spens says is true, there are four still at the Cornucopia.

We've got a decent haul. I managed to snatch a long-bladed knife up off the ground, and Elora has one in her bag. Spens has a slender, double-bladed spear and what looks like extra magazines for the guns. Between us we've got two full water bottles, several packets of dried food, a first aid kit tucked into the bottom of Elora's bag, two sleeping bags because I'm pretty sure Spens lost his somewhere in the process of him rolling on the ground, and something horrifically bright blue that must be a tarp. On top of the sickle in Elora's hand, we're pretty set for now.

"Not bad, actually," Elora comments idly, flipping through the rest of the bags. I watch as a raindrop lands on her shoulder, splattering across the fabric of her jacket. Grumbling, she pulls the hood of her jacket up and the two of us follow suit, swinging our backpacks back on and grabbing our weapons. It's only coming down faintly, barely there at this point, but something about the darkening clouds at the edge of the sky tell me that it's going to get worse.

"Storm's coming," Spens tells us, mimicking my exact thoughts. We keep our eyes on the horizon and back up a few paces before resuming our steady jog forward. I keep my sword drawn just in case. The gun's safely secured in my belt. I'm not ready to use it yet. I don't know if I ever will be.

I glance back over my shoulder, just around the edge of my hood. The storm's already here.

* * *

**Falco Cavallere — 16 years  
District Ten Male**

* * *

"It's not opening."

"Push harder. Be a man."

I grumble under my breath, threatening to reach back and pull Abbie's hood off. Maybe she should try getting the door open, then, instead of making me do it single-handedly like I'm a goddamn superhero.

The thing is, I think she's trying to keep talking, distract herself. I appreciate it. Every time we lapse into silence I see the knife in Dess' throat and contemplate sitting down, wrapping myself in a ball, and waiting for something to kill me. Rain or no rain, it's better than fighting with this stupid door. I throw my shoulder against it again, wincing when it does approximately nothing but bruise me.

We think it's another bunker. Key word being think. It's a lot smaller than the starting one, and half-hidden in crumbling dirt and mud walls, but it looks relatively closed off and safe. We hope.

"Should've brought your boyfriend. He could probably open it."

"He is not my boyfriend, dammit. I got the highest score, and I said he's not, so there."

I can't help but roll my eyes. I pace back a few steps and run at the door again. I don't expect it to fall open the second I hit it like someone turned the handle from the inside and I go sprawling on the concrete floor, nearly kneeing myself in the face. Again. I glance over my shoulder at Abbie and wave a thumbs up at her. She only reaches in the little backpack I've got over my shoulder and pulls out a flashlight, flicking it on and pointing down the little hallway. It ends about two feet away and the light just reaches the edge of the little room.

I pull the knife out of my belt, the only weapon we have and step cautiously into the room. My face bumps into a chain and I nearly yelp, reaching up with one hand to yank down on it. A little half-assed light bulb flickers on above my head, bathing the room in a faded, but very there, yellow glow. I turn around and smile at Abbie, the first real smile I've managed since the bloodbath. She manages a small one back, glancing around the room.

"Not much in here," she comments, turning in a full circle. There really isn't. It's all dark concrete, a half-broken desk in the corner, and a chair, the only piece of intact furniture that I can see. There are little diagrams and maps pinned up along the wall but they're all faded with age or the picture's half gone.

"We don't have much," Abbie hums thoughtfully. Our supplies are spread out around her. There's a sleeping bag, a half-full water bottle, a few silver packets of what has to be food, and that's it. When did she take my backpack?

"Sorry," I say quietly. She shakes her head quickly and smiles, bigger this time.

"Not your fault," she says confidently. "Maybe we should go out and look for stuff."

I can't come up with a response other than a vague, non-committal _hmm?_ noise. She looks to me, eyebrows raised, and her gaze almost looks fond.

"You can stay here with our stuff. I'll be back by the time it gets dark."

There aren't words to describe how much I want her to not do that. We don't know what's out there. The Careers, or mutts, or something worse. At the same time, though, the worry in me isn't for her. It's for me. What will happen if she leaves me alone? Something terrible, probably, and I'll die alone and terrified and not knowing what went wrong. Abbie can very clearly see the uneasiness on my face and crouches down next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder like I'm a toddler she's babysitting. It fucking sucks.

"Promise I'll be back by dark."

"What if you aren't?" I ask quietly, nervously. The thought of being alone for that long isn't sitting well in my stomach.

"Won't happen. Promise." She says, snatching the knife off the floor and shoving it in her belt. She grabs the flashlight as well, pausing by the door, and turns back back to me, a cheery grin on her face and a small wave to accompany it. I wave back half-heartedly, watching her wrench open the door and disappear out into the rain, drawing her hood over her hair as she goes.

There's the faint, quiet sound of the rain thrumming against the ground, just outside the door. Other than that it's silent.

And I hate it.

* * *

**Amara Williams — 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

We have to spend a fair bit of time picking up the pieces.

Or at least the others do, because every time I move it feels like someone set my leg on fire. Camilla, Sheridan and Ross spent a decent amount of time trying to patch me up while Hariwin and Terron wandered around in a general circle, poking at weapons with their feet and looking towards the doors like they're raring to go. Now I've got a heavy line of what's half-sewing, half-stitches across the back of my thigh, covered in in a thick pad of bandages and whatever antibiotic cream they found in the packs.

No matter how good they stitch me up, I know I'm not going anywhere. Right now, I'm really not opposed to that. I've seen enough death today and I've got no interest seeing any more.

We all fell silent when the hovercrafts appeared just outside and we watched Astrid's body get taken away, just a few minutes ago. I was supposed to stick with her, but the closer she got to Hariwin, the more scared I got. In my eyes, sticking with Ross and anyone else, really, was a better idea. Which is how I ended up back to back with Sheridan, trying to fend off the Sevens.

I keep thinking about that moment, when I felt the heavy fall of a blade bury itself in the back of my leg, could think of nothing else but the pain, not even of the death that should have followed had Sheridan not been quick enough to stop him. And then I had to sit there, like it was slow-motion, as Astrid got shot point-blank range in the head across the room from me. None of us were close to do anything. I saw Terron throw himself over Hariwin's body, going for a gun because he had nothing to throw, but by the time he got it and got close enough the Six guy was gone, slamming into his allies and shoving them out the door before any of us could do anything.

Astrid's dead. For lack of a better word, I'm useless, unless we get Capitol-grade medicine, but I doubt it this early on.

"Someone should stay here with Amara while the rest of us go out," Ross points out. Terron and Hariwin both avoid eye contact, looking very much like toddlers who know they did something bad but won't admit it. Camilla and Sheridan stare at each other for a long moment, something passing through their eyes that I don't really make sense of, but eventually Camilla nods and takes a step back, back towards me.

"I'll do it. Have fun, I guess?" She tries, shrugging her shoulders. Hariwin and Terron are gone in the next second without a second thought. Sheridan throws a spear in Ross' direction from the weapons pile and they follow them out, backpacks tightened over their shoulders and weapons in hand.

Camilla watches them leave and sighs deeply. From my place on the ground, sitting on a solid black crate with my leg propped up, I see her deflate.

"You alright?" I ask curiously.

"Yeah. Shouldn't be asking, you're the one hurt."

I really don't need a reminder. I feel like a burden. All six of us could have gone, if I wasn't injured. Seven of us if we had got to Astrid in time. It stings, like someone poured alcohol directly into my wound with no care for how it felt.

"Do you think they'll find anyone?" I say softly. All I can think about is Hariwin finding Estelle, a feral grin on her face before he all but snaps her in two. What happens if they find one of the twelve year olds? Sheridan and Ross might show mercy, for just a second, but it wouldn't be quick enough to save them.

Camilla shrugs again. "Probably. Some of them couldn't have gotten too far. Guess we'll find out."

I breathe in heavily and lean back against the edge of the Cornucopia. The two of us let silence fall, the only sounds being our breathing and the faintest slice of the air as Camilla toys with a knife in her hand. It's covered in blood to the hilt. I don't remember who she killed. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't really want to.

I'm not a killer. I've always tried to convince myself that I'm a good person, that hurting people wouldn't get me anywhere. But this is the Hunger Games. The guy from Seven hurt me without hesitation when his life was in danger. I had knives; I could've done something back, but I wasn't prepared for everything to ... go to shit, for lack of a better term. Not this early.

People are willing to hurt me. They always have been. Kill me, if they have to. Every part of me wants to adopt that mindset.

Almost every part of me can't do it.

* * *

**Lilith Ashwood — 15 years  
District Three Female**

* * *

I got lucky.

I managed to yank myself up onto a table and out a window in the bunker just as the one Four girl swiped at my ankles. Her spear caught the edge of my skin, ripping a small cut just above my foot, but I ignored it. It stung, for a bit, but the longer I ran the more I focused on the burning in my lungs rather than that of injury. I just keep telling myself it's too little to worry about. I'm going to go through a lot more if I get anywhere close to winning.

The only thing I managed to grab from the Cornucopia was a bag that's probably smaller than my forearm. There's nothing in it but two packages of food, a water bottle with nothing in it, and a tightly rolled sleeping bag.

The water is the easiest part. It starts raining maybe twenty minutes later, so I pull my hood up, hold the bottle out, and wait for it to fill up to something that's a respectable amount. I end up pretty soaked for my efforts, but getting a drink after all the running is worth it. The viewers are probably sighing at my lack of a weapon, but I'm already planning that one out.

I yank apart a wooden crate that I find half stuck in the mud of the trench. There's a coil of rope inside it. I shove that in my bag, blinking the water collecting rapidly on my eyelashes, and keep going. Occasionally I'll find sticks, some sturdy and some useless, so I hold onto those as well, tucking the bundle under my arm as I collect more. I think there's a forest in the distance, bare twigs sticking straight into the sky, but it looks so far I'm beginning to suspect it's not worth it. For all I know, the Gamemakers are playing a trick on my eyes.

Eventually I come across a part of the trenches that seemed more ruined than the rest. Upon examination, half-blind from the rain, I think it's a mortar shell. All of the crates and wooden pieces that were probably supposed to be barricades are shattered and thrown in every direction. Hm. That might work. Some of the pieces are rather large and sharp to boot. I shove those in the large pockets that line the side of my pants. There's even some sharp, long metal fragments half buried in the mud. I put those in my backpack, tucked in the sleeping bag. It might get ruined, but it's better than them shredding my pants into 30 different pieces.

The next corner I turn something scuttles around the corner farther up, tail whisking around the edges. I can't help but stop dead in my tracks. I'm pretty sure that was a rat, but the size of a cat, if not bigger. Well, that's pleasant. Knowing the Gamemakers, they're probably carnivorous as well. I might as well resign myself to not getting any sleep for the next unforeseeable amount of time.

There is, however, a little arch made up mostly of crates and concrete that crosses over the middle part of the same trench. Hesitantly, I reach up and poke it with a finger. It doesn't budge. I step under it, staring at the mess of a structure. It seems sturdy, though, and it's good cover from the rain, even if I do have to crouch to get under it, less I wack my head on a beam. It almost looks as if this is a place I'm supposed to be staying - on either side little flat places have been carved out of the wall, reinforced with long, flat pieces of wood. A sleeping spot, maybe? There's even a few sandbags stacked on top of each other. I make track of them in my mind; they're not the ideal weapon, but throwing one at someone is still better than nothing.

I throw down my pack under the archway and get to work.

I cut the rope into sections with the little metal pieces I found, sawing at them until I've sectioned it out as best I can. It takes quite a while, but over a span of time I manage to throw together two traps that I think will work. I set one over the archway, the simpler one that will catch someone straight by the ankle if they come any closer. I hope.

The other one I set maybe 15 feet out. It definitely took longer. If it works right, the long, sharp piece of wood that I have half buried in the wall will slam out into whoever decides to step on or trip the little rope mechanism I have laid out on the ground. I even took the time to shove some of the metal fragments into the end of the wood. For all purposes, it's a really quickly made, crappy mace. One that I won't even have to pick up.

Now I just have to hope that no one comes from the other direction. Then, all of this work will have gone to waste and I'll probably be dead. Which most definitely isn't my goal here.

I settle down under the archway, trying to avoid the muddiest spots. I leave my hood up and rest my chin on my knees. I can't help but stare out into the rain, as dramatic as it feels. What else am I supposed to do? I'm not going to bumble around in this gray mist thing that's going on. No thank you.

This right here is my little safe haven. And it's sure as hell not very conventional, but I'm fine with it the way it is.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax — 12 years  
District Eleven Male**

* * *

I don't really know what I'm doing.

I hate, hate admitting that. But what am I supposed to do? It's not like anyone handed me a manual titled _How to Win the Hunger Games: Tips, Tricks, and the Top Survival Methods _and told me to study it. Why don't victors do that, anyway? It'd be a more productive use of their time than getting drunk or high or wallowing in a general state of misery.

I should've told Paloma to write a book before she sent me off. Darn.

So, I don't have a book. Or any idea what I'm doing. The pack of four Careers nearly walked right into me. I had been crouching beside a wooden crate, rummaging through it for something remotely edible, heard footsteps, and basically threw myself into the ground as far deep into the mud as I could go. The crates did their job and saved my ass, or maybe it was the mud, but they didn't see me and continued on their merry way.

I didn't even find any food. So basically, I came that close to death for nothing. That's got me thinking, though. Why were there only four of them? It's plausible that one or two of them stayed back to defend the Cornucopia, but three of them? There's gotta be something going on there.

Hm. That's an idea. Maybe a stupid one, but I've got nothing better to do. And besides, I really need some food.

I start back the way I came, hopping through ditches and hauling myself up the trenches to the flat ground above when I see a clear stretch to run through. Of course they had to stick me in an arena with nothing edible that doesn't come in some sort of package. On the bright side, I haven't seen a bear yet, and I don't think I will any time soon.

I run for a few more minutes; skulking through little tunnels and side trenches, if you wanna call it that, until I come in sight of the starting bunker. I can't see anything but the back of the Cornucopia from this angle, and the other door that I can see is slammed shut. Guess that means I have to go around the front, which means there's a bigger chance of someone seeing me.

The mud is doing a good job of concealing me, considering I'm covered in it. I crouch down as low as I can get without falling over and do a weird mixture of shuffling and waddling until I'm halfway around, just in line of the door.

From this position I can one of the girls, lounging back on a crate with one of her legs stretched out in front of her. Oh, right, I saw that happened. One point to Porter and his axe, Careers, well, however many kills they managed to get. Five I think. Unless someone else was responsible for one, but I doubt it.

Just as I'm shuffling a bit closer the other One girl appears and drops herself to the floor next to the other one, an apple in her hand and a wattle bottle in the other. Why do I feel so hungry? I didn't each much before launch but it was still something. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten so much in the Capitol before this. I hope they're enjoying this; fattening me up so it hurts more when I don't have food later. Real nice of them.

There's really nothing I can do now. I could run in there. The one probably couldn't do anything before I got in, grabbed something, and got out, but the other one would. There's an entire belt of knives slipped into her belt, the handle of one's sticking out of her boot, and she's got one in each hand, tracing them idly along the floor like she's bored. Wonder why she didn't go with them, then. I doubt anyone else is going to chance their luck by coming back here, and definitely no one who would run in there and risk a knife in the back.

With a heavy sigh and an even emptier stomach, I slip back the way I came, dropping myself into a trench that's not too far from the base. All I can do now is look for something around here that's mildly useful and hope the two of them either fall asleep or leave.

There's nothing in this trench except a grouping of crates at the far end and a rather large wall of sandbags opposite them. I began rummaging through the crates. Most of them are filled with more wood, or random pieces of metal. I find one that's rather tiny but a little sharp, and shove it in my pocket. A shiv is better than nothing, I guess. The rest of them are empty save for the last, which has a thin, water-proof blanket rolled tight in it. Not bad, actually.

I can't just here and wait for something to happen, though. So the crates might be more useful than I think. I began organizing them in a rough circle that looks more like a rectangle in the end. I hop inside the ring of them and haul up the last few until they're balanced precariously on top of the other ones, creating a rather tight cocoon. It keeps the rain out, though, and the wind's not too bad, so I shouldn't have to worry about them collapsing on top of me. Now I just have to hope that no one thinks to kick them over when they're walking by.

I lay back, breathing in the lovely scent of mud and damp wood. I draw the blanket over me, but it doesn't help the chill seeping into my back from the ground. So now I'm cold as well as hungry. For a second, I almost miss Eleven. Rather heatstroke than hypothermia at this point.

In short, this day isn't going too great for me. But at least I'm not getting rained on anymore.

* * *

**Estelle Galore — 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I really don't like how dirty it is in here.

Honestly, they couldn't have had the arena in a building, or something? And now on top of the mud and the dirt that's already spattered across my cheeks, it won't stop pouring. We've been in here, what, a few hours, and they won't even cut as a break? I want to stop and find shelter, but Cassia insists we keep walking, so I dutifully troop alongside her, no matter how many times I ask to stop.

My feet hurt, though. These boots aren't comfortable, and slogging through the mud and sinking halfway up to my calves in deep puddles isn't exactly my definition of fun.

"Cassia?"

"Yeah?"

"Where are we going?"

She sighs. "I don't _know_ where we're going."

"Then why are we still walking?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

I pause. No, not really. But I'm getting more irritated with walking by the second. Ignoring the pain in my feet I skip ahead, leaving Cassia a little bit behind as I come to the edge of the trench. She insisted on walking on the ground above them rather than in them, because they're already getting too treacherous to navigate. I asked about the mines, though, and if this was trench warfare, shouldn't we not be walking around blind? She had stopped, peering at me from the corner of her eyes skeptically, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline.

Seriously. I can be smart when I want to. What don't people understand about that?

Cassia hops down into the trench and immediately begins scrambling up the opposite wall. I have no choice but to follow her. Immediately I can feel ice-cold mud sliding thick along my boots, the slightest bit managing to seep through the lacing of my boots. Ugh, seriously?

As soon as we end up on the other side I begin skipping forward again. I hope my parents are watching. Dad's probably proud. I hope my mom is, but I seriously doubt it. Even now she's probably more focused on Duke than me, but whatever. Her loss.

"What'cha thinking about?" Cassia asks out of the blue. She's not usually the one initiating the conversations, and her focus is more on trekking through the mud, but she at least seems curious.

"Just my family. Nothing major. They probably don't care, anyway."

"Don't say that," Cassia says, a little forcefully. "I'm sure they do. You're loved just like any of us are."

I want to tell her that _no, I'm really not_, but Duke even said he did at the goodbyes. Dad said it the night before. Mom doesn't, usually, but sometimes she'll look at me or squeeze my hand in passing. Usually I brush it off, telling myself it's just her trying to make sure I don't completely hate her. Her attention's always elsewhere. Why would she care now?

Is that love, though? Maybe it is. I can feel my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. I wish I knew where the cameras were, so I could turn to one and ask her. It's not like she'd be able to respond, but it might make me feel better.

I'm so busy walking forward, arms swinging wildly by my sides, that I barely notice the little archway I begin walking across. We've seen a few of them, off in the distance. They're awfully convenient and much better than jumping down into the trenches and pulling yourself out of them on the opposite side two seconds later. It seems solid enough. I take another step on it, light and careful.

Cassia arms wrap around me, vice tight from behind and practically squish my stomach. I'm half-tempted to shriek and shake her off. When I look at her over my shoulder, she shakes her head frantically and presses a finger to her lips. I watch as she takes the same finger and points downward.

Yeah. There's an archway bridge thing underneath us. Noticed that already. Seriously, what the hell?

I open my mouth to say something, protest her still holding onto me, but she slaps a hand over my mouth. What, is the bridge going to be offended that I'm talking? The bridge can fuck off, for all I care. I'll find another way across.

It's then that I look down, just over the edge of the bridge, and see a shadowed lump through the rain and the darkness that's practically engulfing everything around us. What is that? Is that a foot?

Oh. Uh-oh. That's a person.

I look back at Cassia. She stares back.

Great.

* * *

It's still technically Sunday where I am, so there's that. Also, 13 reviews last chapter? You guys are amazing!

Anyway, no deaths! Look how nice I am.

Everyone's getting settled, as you can see. The action will be back a hell of a lot sooner than you think, along with the deaths. Not much else to say here except thanks for the continuous reviews if you are sticking around and thanks for the support in general, it's always much appreciated.

Until next time.


	19. Killer's Club

Arena, Night One.

* * *

**Sheridan Ariss — 18 years**  
**District Four Female**

* * *

We've been trekking for hours and haven't found anyone.

Fact is, this place is huge. And with everyone scattering so far and so wide out of pure, instinctual fear, the chances of finding someone just standing out in the open isn't a good one.

Both Ross and I have tried to voice this. Terron and Hariwin ignore us every single time or in the very least produce some sort of snarky comment back and resume on their merry ways. And I really, really don't want to leave them alone. I don't even think I'm aware of how much destruction they could cause if they were left to their own devices. It's better for me to stay here, where I can try and intervene if something terrible happens or where I can make whatever happens less painful for whoever's at the receiving end of it.

For the past hour or so we've been hiking on top of the trenches. It gives us a better vantage point, and a further one. To be completely honest, it's probably the only reasonable thing Hariwin's suggested all night. We are, coincidentally, following the exact path the Six guy and his allies took. Or at least that's what Hariwin thinks, but we've turned so many times that I doubt we're anywhere close to them. It's probably a good thing for them.

"Are we gonna stay out here for the night?" Ross asks skeptically from behind me, quiet enough that the other two can't hear him. He's got a point. They won't admit it, but they're tired too. We've barely stopped to eat and slogging through all of this stuff is terrible, no matter how much the rain has slowed.

"We should find a place to stop soon," I say as sternly as possible, raising my voice just loud enough to make them stop. "We'll head back in the morning."

Terron opens his mouth to protest, purely just to _do it_, I can't help but think, but Hariwin's the one that nudges him in the shoulder to shut up. I nearly fall over out of sheer shock. I think most of the rage-fueled adrenaline has faded out of him by now. Now he just looks frustrated and exhausted and very much like he still wants to hit someone, though I don't think it's aimed at us anymore.

They let me take the lead down the slightest of hills, leading back towards the trenches. I have to focus more on staying upright than anything else, slipping every way my legs would take me if I let them. A slurry of mud and water and who knows what else goes sliding down the slope from my feet. Ross and Terron are maybe twenty feet away, looking for a better way to get down than this. Doesn't look like they're having any luck.

I'm still in stuck in a mild amount of shock that Hariwin's listening, let alone sticking behind me.

I'm looking at the two of them across the way when the explosion goes off, sending mud splattering against us and the two of us flying into the ground. My ears are ringing, and now I can barely see, through the water in my eyes and the mud clinging thick to my eyelashes. What the hell**—**?

"What the hell?" Terron mimics seconds later. I wipe my hands over my face, clearing some of the mud off, and glance before me. There's a decent sized crater in the ground maybe fifteen feet away and the mini-avalanche of mud I had noticed is nowhere to be seen.

"Nobody else move," I say calmly. Hariwin, half-risen beside me, pauses. The four of us are hardly moving, except for the slight sway the wind keeps coming around, and the water that drips off of our shoulders onto the ground.

"Please tell me we didn't just walk into a minefield," Ross pleads.

"We didn't just walk into a minefield," Terron deadpans, looking around. When he sees Ross' face, he grins.

"Seriously, guys. Shut up for two seconds."

We're not that far from the edge of a trench, but I have no idea if there's a clear path for us to there, or all of us are getting blown sky-high if we take another few steps forward. Hariwin's axe flies over my head and lands with a heavy thump in the mud just on the other side of the crater. All of us pause. Nothing happens. I turn back to him, eyebrow raised, but I can't help but feel a flicker of gratitude for a split second.

"Guess that much is clear," he responds simply, shrugging his shoulders. Okay then.

"Both of you, come back over here the exact way you left," I tell Ross and Terron. Even the latter listens this time, though I can't help but notice how he walks a little too quickly to be considered careful. Resisting the urge to sigh I rise to my feet, taking a few slow steps forward. The crater is a sizable hole but not an unmanageable one. I carefully make my way to the other side, hefting the axe up off the ground once I get there. God, how does he even carry this thing? No wonder he's probably tired.

I toss it again as best I can muster. Once again, nothing happens.

"Anybody got anything else heavy to throw?"

Terron passes his backpack up and I throw it just past the weapon. We're almost there, now. Hopefully we can get there without any casualties. This is the first time I can recall that we're all working towards something together. I know right now it's life vs. death, the first real test of the alliance, but it's nice, in a sense, to know that this might work. For all of our faults, we might be able to do this.

We're almost there, now. Close enough to jump into the trench, at any rate. I grab the axe again and pass it back to Hariwin, followed by Terron's backpack.

"Guys."

We all pause, turning back to Ross, who's at the end of the line. He's got his gaze fixated on a point on the ground about five feet to our left. Just over the pattering of the rain on the ground, and what seems like a deathly silence, I can hear the faintest of beeping.

Something, someone slams into my back, or more than one someone, because the next thing I know I'm half sliding half falling into the trench, slamming into the ground with a thud that drives every bit of breath right out of my body. The three of them all land in some form in the same space I did just as the explosion goes off, spraying dirt and mud in the air and showering us with fragments of nearly everything in the ground.

We're all tangled together on the ground, half-sunken in the mud, but somehow we're all alive, and not even yelling at each other.

The four of us look up together, where the explosion could have taken all four of us out in mere seconds, and then at each other. Maybe it's just me being optimistic, but there seems to be the slightest bit of unification there.

Terron ruins it a prompt two seconds later. "That was fun."

Hariwin snorts and heaves himself to his feet, shaking the mud out of his hair. Ross offers me a hand and I take it gratefully, letting him pull me to my feet. He nods over my shoulder, though, not giving me a second to thank him, and I follow his gaze. Half buried in the trench wall is a small bunker, door shut tight and cut off from the world.

I can't help the small smile that fights it's way onto my face. But then I see the light falling just under the door, so faint I have to blink just to make sure it's really there. We may have passed that test, gotten each other out of what could have been the biggest mess yet, but I think we just found another one.

* * *

**Cassia Winters — 12 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

Estelle and I are both completely frozen on top of the archway. I don't know how long it's been, but it feels like forever. Not once has the person underneath us showed any signs of moving.

Several times now Estelle has grabbed my arm and tugged, like she wants to leave. I keep shaking my head, staying put. There's a part of me that's screaming to get out of there, to turn tail and forget their life was hanging in the balance of the two of us. There's another part of me that's yelling to just get it over with, jump down and slip a knife between the person's ribs, and move on. If I don't do it, someone else will.

I remember the day me and River found that dead body in one of the back alleys, so far off the main road it's no surprise that no one find it. No one had reported any missing persons, so chances are it was a random orphan, or someone so old all their family had died off before them. No one cared.

River had picked up a stick and started poking at it's leg. Except the person below me now isn't an it, it's a person, one who probably does have family and people watching who are telling me not to, begging for it not to end like this. They're a living, breathing person and what right do I have?

Estelle shifts the slightest bit and I flinch as a small part of the archway cracks off, the tiny piece of wood landing with a light _splat_ in the mud mud right next to the person. We both watch as they shift, ever so slightly, and then their head turns, what we can see of it.

They're awake. So I jump.

Estelle yelps just as I land below her, feet sinking halfway into the ground. The mud's sucking at my boots, threatening to pull me down and over. The person**— **Three girl, I realize, nearly yelps herself, rushing to her feet and diving for the backpack by her feet. She ends up poised over it, no weapon in hand, staring at me silently. Her eyes widen when Estelle slips down the side to land behind me.

"What do you want?" She hisses. I can't help but notice her fingers tighten on the backpack. That's probably the only weapon she has.

For a second, something in me flickers, a lingering of doubt, maybe. I'm not scared. I jumped down here for a reason and I know exactly what it is. They want a show. If Estelle and I run, they'll get us for it later. I'm not an idiot. My dad didn't let me watch that many Hunger Games but I saw enough.

If I don't do it, we're dead. _I'm_ dead. And the only time I have a problem with death is when it's applied to me.

I run at her, searching for whatever purchase I can in the mud, slamming into her slower than I would have liked. It's still effective; we go tumbling to the ground, rolling in the mud. At this point I think we're holding onto each other to avoid sinking straight under. She's got the size advantage but I like to think I know what I'm doing.

She drives an elbow into my ribs and scrabbles away a few feet, latching onto the backpack. Estelle's still standing there, watching with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth. I want to scream at her to do something, anything, for the love of _god, _but then the backpack's swinging towards me. I have no choice but to lunge out of the way or risk a head injury, giving her a clear path to get out. The girl gets half to her feet, hair dripping wet and soaked with mud, and runs for it. She quite literally shove Estelle out of the way, but Estelle's fingers latch onto her coat edge at the last second. She does yelp, this time, her feet sliding in the mud and the next thing I know there's a length of rope wrapped tight around her ankle, dragging her straight to the ground. The two of them go down together.

Estelle slides back to me, not even bothering to get up, looking sufficiently terrified. The Three girl is stuck on the ground, what has to be her own trap wrapped around her ankle and keeping her there. That's why she tried to avoid that side of the trench. She would have, if Estelle hadn't accidentally dragged her back.

Her hands are digging into the ground, fingers trembling and bone white against the earth. Maybe it's the rain, or the mud covering every inch of her, or maybe it's the terror in her eyes, but I hesitate again.

"Why are you doing this?" She hisses. She backs up as far as she can when she sees me pull the knife out of my belt. "You're_ twelve_, you don't have to do this!"

I swallow hard. Imagine my brothers. Dad. I do have to do this.

I stalk forward as fast as I can, not giving myself another second to hesitate. Her mouth opens in what has to be a scream but then my knife's buried hilt-deep in her throat, and whatever was about to come out is replaced by a mess of blood and saliva that drips out of her mouth, washed away by the rain almost as soon as it appears. Estelle does shriek, from somewhere behind me.

I yank the knife out. She slips to the ground, eyes staring sightlessly back at me.

"Cassia—" Estelle starts, panicked and trembling.

"Don't."

She trails off, and goes dead silent when I turn back to look at her, still half on the ground. The cannon slams through the sound of the rain and she flinches. She looks terrified. Not at what just happened, but of me.

"I'm sorry," I manage, avoiding meeting her eyes. "We need to go."

I don't check to make sure she follows. I haul myself back up the wall, straight towards the archway. For a second I don't think she's going to follow, but then I hear careful, shaky footsteps scrabbling up behind me.

I know she's scared of me. And despite myself, I think I'm scared of me too.

* * *

**Porter Crankshaw — 18 years**  
**District Seven Male**

* * *

"Hey, Finn?"

Finnea hums softly, keeping her eyes on the path ahead of us. I don't know how's she's still holding me up. Maybe I'm doing a better job at keeping myself on my feet than I thought. It would be easier to think that if every step didn't send a lightning bolt up my side, the edges of it worming into my leg and making me stumble.

"Sorry."

She does turn to me this time, patient. "For what?"

"Don't think this is what you imagined. Dragging my sorry ass around, I mean."

Acacia lets out a light laugh from ahead of us, propping the door open with her shoulder and leaning far enough out of the way to let us pass the threshold. "Your ass was already sorry."

Finnea shakes her head lightly, smiling. I give her a thumbs-up with my free arm. Despite everything, Acacia still seems at edge, glancing over her shoulder or watching Finnea from the corner of her eye when she thinks neither of us are looking. She doesn't trust her. Then again, she didn't know about this little arrangement, so why would she? It occurred to me a little too late that I could have told her. Probably should have. Guess it doesn't matter now.

I end up stumbling down a small set of stairs with Finnea's help. Both of us are blinking rapidly in the darkness by the time Acacia gets the door shut. She jogs down the stairs after us and flicks on a flashlight. The room's pretty tiny, and there's absolutely nothing in it, but it seems solid enough.

With a great deal of help I end up propped against the far wall, legs stretched out. My side burns, but that's nothing new. We stopped for a prompt two seconds to bandage it after the mess at the Cornucopia before we set off again.

We're all soaked through, but there's nothing to start a fire with. Acacia stands up the flashlight in the middle of the room, but other than that, we're submerged in darkness.

I shrug off my jacket, wincing when it sticks to my side, throwing it down next to me. That probably won't help it dry off. There's already a decent-sized hole in my shirt from the spear, and I can feel Finnea poking at it gently, trying not to make it worse.

"What's the verdict, Doc?" I ask, trying to smile when she looks at me sternly. She looks genuinely worried, though, and something like fear seeps into my veins.

"Seriously, what?"

"It doesn't— it doesn't look too bad," she swallow thickly, lifting up my shirt. "But it could be. We've got nothing to clean it with, nothing to make sure there's no infection, and we've been sliding through the mud for hours."

Huh. Is it just my paranoia, or do I already feel a little hot? I put my own hand on my forehead, frowning, but everything feels the same temperature to me. Acacia, crouched by my feet, glances at Finnea's worried face and then straight to me. With the barest of shadows in the room from the light, I can't tell what her expression is.

"We're gonna be okay. I didn't say you could die, asshole," she says simply. My small smile comes out more like a grimace. She grabs the bag off the floor and hauls it in front of her, handing Finnea a fresh roll of bandages. Considerate for them to provide those, which will do jack shit in the long run if my blood's already poisoned.

The flashlight gets dragged in between the three of us, our little triangle of silence and high-strung worry, listening to nothing but the rain slamming against the walls.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels ****— 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

I watch in silence and something like dread as Hariwin slams the door open with little to no effort. Terron ducks under his arm, looking positively gleeful, and practically books it inside.

Sheridan looks at me. I stare back. From inside, we hear the scuffling of feet and something between a yell and a sob. Something sinks inside me, but I try to turn my eyes into something resembling steel as I follow her inside. It's kind of hard, though, when my heart nearly stops.

Terron's got the Ten kid pinned to the floor by his neck. Ten kid. Falco. Abbie's partner. I blink rapidly. She's not here. Where the hell is she? For a second, I wonder if the cannon we heard was hers.

"Terron, just get it over with," Sheridan sighs. There's something like sobs coming from the floor. Terron looks at the two of us, poised in the entrance way, and then at Hariwin, who's standing a little bit away. Eventually he looks back down at Falco, twirling the knife in his hand absentmindedly.

"Nah, I got a better idea," he decides. He reaches down and grabs Falco by the hair, dragging him up but not quite to his feet. I don't think he could hold himself up, anyway. He's shaking horrifically, tears streaming down his cheeks, hands locked on Terron's wrists like he thinks it's going to help. "You do it, Ross."

My heart stops again.

"You talked to the Tens the most during training, it's only fair," he informs me. At the look on my face, he smiles again. "You're a Career? Prove it."

He's going to make me do it. Hariwin doesn't care enough to stop him, and Sheridan's not stupid enough to try. I keep reminding myself that I volunteered for this. I knew what I was signing up for; thought I could into iron and steel and something unbreakable to come out and win.

Maybe I was wrong.

Terron locks his forearms around Falco's shoulders, effectively trapping him against his chest. He's downright sobbing at this point, shaking his head violently at me like he thinks I have a choice. I don't have a fucking choice. I've never had one, when have I ever _had one_.

I realize I'm shaking. The spear is trembling in my hands. When did I even grab it off my back? All I can see is him crying, trembling because he realizes there's no way out of this. Not for either of us. I think of Mom, about how much we need this. About Cas, about Geni, who hugged me a little too tightly when I left for it to not be worry. Did she know? Did she know this would happen?

"Ross, _please_, please please don't, _please_—"

All I can hear is him sobbing.

"C'mon, Daniels, join the Killer's Club. What's so bad about that?"

I lunge forward before I give myself a chance to think about that. The spear goes straight through his stomach and out his back. Terron jumps out of the way just in time; the only thing keeping Falco up is the spear straight through him. And this close all I can see are the tear tracks on his face, the horror, the panic, every emotion under the sun mixed into one look. One look that he kept trying to send me. One that didn't work.

His blood is seeping through my fingers. I'm still holding onto the spear, fingers grazing against his torso. I see the exact moment everything fades out of his eyes into utter _nothingness, _but they don't slip shut, staring straight at me, past me, like it's on purpose.

I don't even turn around. I just rip the spear out, avoiding the blood that splatters on the floor and across my shoes, ignoring the thud as his body hits the ground. Sheridan moves aside in silence, letting me stumble out the doorway and back into the rain.

It feels like I can't breathe, but at the same time I know the water on my face isn't tears. I just killed someone and I'm not even crying. It might feel like someone just tore a hole in my chest, but nothing else. Like the rain's smoothing everything over. Telling me to stop, you knew what you were doing, it's okay, it's okay but it's not okay, _fuck, it's not okay—_

Something catches my eye. Blonde hair, the top of the ridge, just about to cross over. I freeze. Abbie. There's no one else it could be. I glance over my shoulder and back up just as she catches sight of the open door, of me standing there just outside of it, and maybe it's the blood she can see dripping off my hands or maybe it's the cannon that rings out, but even from this far I see when she knows.

Her hand goes over her mouth and I know she's crying. Know she wants to scream. I can see the moment she nearly collapses to the ground, half-hysterical, and there's nothing I can do but stand there and watch. I never get a choice.

There's so much I want to say, yell over the sound of the storm and hope the others don't hear. _I'm sorry, oh god, I'm so fucking sorry, I want forgiveness except I don't deserve it, I'm sorry._

_Go_, I settle for instead, mouthing it and hoping she knows that too. _Please._

Maybe it's a miracle, or maybe she did get it, but she's gone in the next second, back down the hill I can't see. The blood's almost gone. My spear's clean again. Like it didn't happen.

The anthem starts up just as the three come outside, cutting off the light from the inside.

The bloodbaths. Three girl. And Falco's smiling face, staring back at me.

Because it did happen. And I'm the one that did it.

* * *

**Abigail Locey — 17 years  
District Ten Male**

* * *

There's nothing left in me.

Or at least it feels like that. I barely make it down the hill before I half collapse into a trench, sinking to my knees in the mud. Am I crying? I think I'm crying. For a little bit I was half-convinced it was the rain but now I'm not so sure.

Dess is dead. Falco's dead.

Ross just killed Falco.

I could tell myself he didn't do it. Said he got so sick at the sight that he ran from the bunker and let the other three finish him off. But there's something in me that just _knows_. Maybe it was the look on his face. I can barely see the same person that I did in training; smiling and laughing turned into utter hatred. For what he did. For the Games. For himself.

There's a flicker of movement from the other end of the trench. Even collapsed to me knees, shaking and sobbing, I feel my fingers tighten around the knife in my belt. Something like disgust bubbles up in my stomach. How am I any different, if I kill someone? I don't even know if it's worth it anymore.

The shape flickers again, morphing into a better shape. Not a mutt. A person.

Maybe I should just let them kill me. It'd be easier. At this point, they wouldn't even have to try that hard. They're not moving, though, and I can't make out who it is from this point. I brace my hand against the wall, feeling my fingers sink into the mud even though I can barely see it, and rise to my feet. My knees threaten to give out the second I get up.

"Hello?" I call nervously. I watch them shift. Like they're debating whether to run or stay put.

"Hey," comes the quieter reply, but still audible over the steady rain. It's deeper. One of the guys, then, and not one of the Careers. Older, if I had to guess. The silence after that single word stretches between us. I force myself to straighten up and open my mouth to speak, trying to figure out something to say.

I get cut off before I can form words myself. "It's Quill. District Nine," he says. He sounds oddly calm about the situation. "I, uh, don't really feel like killing you. Not at all, actually."

"Same here," I reply. My voice sounds like more of a croak.

"You mind if I come over there?"

He must see me shake my head because he crosses over, albeit slowly and with a little bit of hesitance. I nearly yelp when I see the gun in his belt, but his hands aren't anywhere near it. He really doesn't want to hurt me, I don't think.

I must look like hell. Almost all of my hair has fallen out of my ponytail, hanging in front of my face in wet, messy strands. I'm more covered in mud than not at this point, and I don't think the crying helped much.

"Terrible with names, sorry**—**" Quill starts.

"Abigail."

He pauses and looks at me steadily. I find myself doing the same thing back.

Everyone's called me Abbie since I got here. But Abbie means friends and family and being solely focused on caring about others. All I can think about is where that's got me. Two dead allies. Seven dead people altogether. I didn't even know most of them, and I still want to cry. For their families. For everyone who's going to miss them. For the fact that they're _dead_ and they really shouldn't be.

For myself, kind of. But Abbie means more than I can be right now. That girl would cry and sit down and wait to die. I won't.

"You alright?" Quill asks me. "You had two allies, I thought."

"Yeah, I know."

He shuts up at that. I know he had one too. Which means we're in the same boat now.

I think we come to an agreement without even saying anything. Just standing there, letting each other wallow in our own misery while being in the company of someone else. It's nice, almost. The best thing is, I don't know him. I don't have to care. I also don't know if I can be like that, and it scares me.

Looking at Quill, though, I know he's thinking the same thing. He doesn't want to get attached either. Not again.

He's an ally. Nothing else.

Abbie cared. Abigail doesn't have to.

* * *

**19th. Lilith Ashwood, District Three Female.**  
**18th. Falco Cavallere, District Ten Male.**

* * *

I got excited so it got posted a little earlier. Sue me.

My original plans had Ross killing Abbie in that scene, if that helps at all. It could've been worse. I think. Depending. Anyway, I loved these two as well. Love all of the characters I got, really, but as I've said before some fit in better than others did. Don't hate me for killing them but as I've said, if you want reasoning behind their deaths, never hesitate to ask. I'll always appreciate having them while I did.

16 more deaths to go. Should be fun.

Until next time.


	20. Hope and Pray

Arena, Day Two.

* * *

**Elora Farro ****—**** 17 years  
****District Nine Female**

* * *

I really need to learn how to sit still.

We found our shelter for the night and so far, so good. We took turns keeping watch, although it was more listening than anything else, and locked ourselves in a bunker. Nothing went bump in the night. I poked my head out twenty minutes ago and there was nothing in sight except for the sun rising, barely over the horizon yet.

I woke both of the boys up with my pacing. The room's too small to do much of it, though. I hit the opposite wall every four and a half seconds and then have to turn around.

"Are we gonna stay in here all day?" I ask them both, not stopping to look at their reactions.

"Do you _want_ to go outside?" Kiero asks incredulously. "There were two cannons last night, which probably means the Careers were roaming. They still could be."

I remember the look on his face when we watched the death recap. He knew about Eitta, we all did, and then he saw Lilith and the look on his face was like nothing I've had to put name to before. Like he's blaming himself for something completely out of his control. He talked to her for all of five minutes but feels responsible for the fact that she's dead.

We're all trying to be heroes in some sense or other and none of us know how to do it.

"Better than staying in here all day," I shrug.

"We shouldn't risk it," he insists. "They won't send anything after us this early. Seven deaths on the first day, they'll be happy with that for now."

He's got that stubborn look in his eyes again. I turn to Spens, who raises his hands helplessly.

"He's got a point."

I sigh and drop my forehead on the wall when I reach it again. They're both right, but I wish they weren't. I can't just sit here and wait for things to happen. I did that yesterday and Arlo died. We all did that yesterday, and look what happened. Seven people dead.

It almost feels like there's some sort of warped hole in my chest – they're all dead, but the three of us are still alive. That has to count for something. As wrong as it might be to be grateful that they're dead instead of me, instead of us, the thought keeps tugging itself back up in the corner of my mind and staying there.

I drop myself down on the floor next to Kiero, bumping my shoulder lightly against his. He smiles ever so slightly and some of the tension bleeds out of his expression.

"So, if we're not leaving, then what are we going to do all day?"

"Not much to do in here," Spens points out. "Unless you can pull something out of thin air."

"Twenty questions?" I supply. "Uh, I spy with my little eye, something brown?"

"The wall?" Kiero deadpans. Spens takes one look at the two of us and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes in a very clear _I'm going back to sleep because of you two_ expression.

"No, the floor. Close enough I guess."

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, but I can tell he's fighting off a smile.

"Not much else besides brown," I continue. "So tell me something random about yourself."

Kiero blinks thoughtfully, looking almost pained as he tries to search for something. We spent most of yesterday ignoring the blood splattered across us and the faces in the sky and having this slice of normalcy, no matter how small, almost feels likes home.

"I have a pet fish?" He eventually supplies, eyebrows drawn together.

"You sure about that?" I ask him. "You don't seem very sure."

Spens lets out a light snort from the other side of the room, but keeps his eyes shut tight. Kiero rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure."

It's still early, and there's light slipping in through the crack at the bottom of the door. If I sit back and look at the two of them, pretend it's just like home with Aerin and Kaden, I can let myself forget what's really going on. Pretend that none of us have to die, that no one's ever died for something like this.

It's delusional and foolhardy and everyone back home, everyone in the Capitol, they won't admire me for it. They won't applaud me sitting back and refusing to play, even for this short while.

I will play. But when it's time, and no sooner. I'm not shattering this any quicker than I have to.

* * *

**Terron Calvert ****—**** 18 years  
****District Two Male**

* * *

I haven't decided if the mood of the group is defeated or just downright sad. And not sad in the oh, how terrible, type of way, but more in the pathetic one.

Ross still looks more than slightly dead behind the eyes. I'll never get it, why people who volunteer think they can do it, turn from a human into something worse in a matter of days. Ross certainly can't. You can tell he's trying to hold it together and admittedly he's not doing too bad of a job right now, but one shove in any direction and he'll either fall apart or snap.

A crazy version of Ross. Huh. Wonder what that would look like.

We're almost back to base. I think. Sheridan's been leading us back for the past hour or so, with Hariwin and Ross trudging along behind her in the thick mud. At least it's stopped raining. The sun's even threatening to peek out when there's a break in the clouds.

Sheridan hasn't killed anyone, yet, but she will when she has to. Amara is for all purposes useless, sitting in the dirt with a wound that we don't have medicine for. I thought the Capitol supplied us with everything, but I guess we're wrong, and she might be hot but she won't get any sponsors sitting there.

And then there's Astrid, who's very, very dead. I felt bad for all of two seconds. She didn't ask for that. But hey, one more competitor down and killing her probably would have been messy, so more power to the Six guy. I hope he knows that Hariwin will snap his neck the second he sees him. That'll probably be even more messy.

Upon sight of the base I drop myself down into the nearest trench. No need for me to be lead any longer than necessary. Just letting someone take control when I could be is grating, something that trickles under my skin and burns. It's rather irritating.

I right myself, ignoring the sounds of the mud as I yank my feet out of it. And then a small, barely there shape rams into me from the corner of my eye as it barrels around the trench corner and I go back down again, landing hard on my back out of sheer surprise. What the fuck?

I turn my head, still in the mud. Small shape. Almost around the next corner. Eleven kid. Oh, this is gonna be fun.

In seconds I'm back on my feet, executing a damn good leap over the nearest puddle, and tearing after him. Someone, maybe all three of them, shouts my name, but I ignore it. Why miss such a golden opportunity when it's right in front of you? The little fucker's fast, though, I'll give him that. Despite it, he's terrified. I don't know what he's doing so close the Cornucopia and how Camilla or Amara didn't notice, but no time to think about that now. The chase has to take priority.

He's smaller and more nimble but I'm taller. Every three steps he takes I can leap one, and when he rounds the next corner, feet scrabbling for purchase, my fingers brush up against the edge of his jacket just enough for me to tug back and down. He goes slamming down into the mud, instantly trying to move in any direction that isn't towards me, but in the next second I've got an arm wrapped around his wrist and the other still tangled in his jacket.

He's small. Really small. It's weird, almost. He's struggling like a bat out of hell and kicking frantically, but I still haul him to his feet with almost no effort.

"Fuck you," he spits out, looking very much like he'd bite me if he could. My eyebrows shoot up and I almost smile.

"Oh, we've got a fun one here. You're coming back with me."

At this point he's almost downright screeching, and the kicking is getting rather annoying. He's not going to stop, though, and the closer I drag him back to base the more frantic he gets.

"What the _hell _are you doing?" Sheridan demands when I get back to them, looking more at the kid than at me. I don't even bother to give her an explanation, just shoulder past the three of them, still holding onto his collar.

I trot down the last few steps to the door and throw him inside before me. He lands with a harsh thump on the metal ground, rolling a few feet before he stops, almost instantly on his hands and knees. Camilla jumps to her feet at the sight of us and Amara glances up in surprise.

"Seen this one around, ladies?" I ask the two of them. Neither of them choose to respond. "Because he's been lurking out there all night, I'd guess."

"I repeat, fuck you," the kid says again. His eyes dart to the door on the opposite side of the room, but the three of them come in behind me and he swallows hard, fingers white-knuckled on the ground and muscles tense.

"Twelve year olds usually aren't this vocal," I point out. "Not gonna lie, I kind of like you."

"Is there a point to this?" Camilla snaps. I look back to Hariwin, hoping for some sort of back-up, but he just looks at me, then at the kid, and then back again. He shrugs, looking more bored than anything else. I think Astrid fucked him up more than he'd ever care to admit.

"Live a little! They want a show, right?"

"We're not torturing him," Ross says softly.

"I'm with him," the kid says, way too quickly, looking over my shoulder at Ross. It takes a lot of self-control to not laugh.

"He speaks! And how dare you accuse me of such vile acts, I would never," I point out. Not my style, really. Dramatics are one thing but torturing a twelve year old? They'd look at me like a monster, crossing too many lines, and even the Capitol doesn't like that. Can't upset the sponsors.

"Then what exactly are we doing?" Hariwin asks, crossing over and poking the kid in the ribs with his boot. If looks could kill, he'd probably be dead.

Funny thing is, I haven't decided yet. I could kill him, but that would ruin the point. It's amusing to see how everything's going down. Amara's almost to the point of tears, because she can't do anything, and Sheridan and Camilla are trading quick glances over my shoulder, no doubt figuring out what to do.

"You got a name?" I inquire, looking down at him. He looks at Hariwin, at me, and then at the rest of them, trying to figure out who he has the best chance at dealing with. I feel like that's what everyone has been doing so far when they look at us – trying to catch the eye of whoever will let them go. But this is the Hunger Games and stupidity doesn't last long. Neither does mercy.

"Yeah, I already told you, it's _fuck you_," he says for a third time. I do laugh, this time, almost clapping my hands together.

Really, this is going to be so much fun.

* * *

**Quill Grove ****—**** 17 years  
****District Nine Male**

* * *

Abigail slams herself into my back out of nowhere halfway through the day and nearly knocks my heart out of my chest. The two of us go down to the ground in a heap, half-behind a stack of crates and various other things. I'm fairly sure there's mud in places I didn't know existed.

Just when I was starting to not mind having another ally.

"What**—**" I start.

She slaps a hand over my mouth, glaring. With her free hand she points up and then left, towards the other side of the trench. That's certainly specific.

There's something like footsteps, but they're too slow and sloppy to be a person's. For a second I'm almost convinced I'm hearing things, until they start up again, this time a bit closer. It's getting darker, too. The sun was out a few minutes ago.

This can't be good.

It has to be a mutt. It doesn't sound too big, but there's a steady snuffling that keeps getting louder, like it's trying to sniff us out. Those noises are definitely getting louder.

I peel myself away from Abigail's hand, leaning towards the edge of the crate. There's nothing in the trench in front of us, but I can see a medium-sized shape shuffling along the top of it, dangerously close to the edge. As if on cue the thing's head swivels around towards me, pale, milky eyes the only thing separating it from the mud. I duck behind the crate again, shoving Abigail further towards the wall, and draw my legs behind them.

There's a heavy thump, and the splashing of water, followed by moments of silence. Like it jumped into the trench. Like it saw me even though it looks blind as all hell. Fuck.

I really don't want to waste bullets on a mutt. But judging by the teeth on it if I let it get close enough to knife it, I might not have a throat by the end of it.

Closer steps. I pull the gun out of my belt and rise into something resembling a crouch. There's the faintest slide of steel on leather as Abigail pulls her knife out of her belt behind me. I inch forward again, readying myself to either chance a look at it or run at it entirely.

It's gone. Thanks, Gamemakers.

"Quill, watch it!"

Nevermind.

The thing vaults itself over the crates and crashes into my head. There isn't even a second to wish I had been better prepared or that it had aimed itself anywhere other than my _eyes_, because the force of the blow sends me flying straight to my back. Abigail yells something again, something I'm not focused on because all I can see are claws and teeth and they're too fucking long to focus on anything else.

I drive my fist into its side but it barely reacts, claws holding fast onto my coat and just barely pricking against the edge of my chest. Now would be a good time to find wherever the hell my gun went flying to.

I see claws again, ripping their way across my vision and they're so close I don't even think to fight back, just snap my eyes shut before they tear across my face.

It _hurts_. All I feel is them digging into my forehead and grazing over my closed eyelid and down the left side of my face, dragging all the way down across my jawline and I thought I'd felt pain but not until it feels like something is ripping the flesh of your face off.

Through the warm, steady flow of blood dripping down my face and pooling across my eye the pressure gets the slightest bit easier to manage, the thing screeching above me as it fights to hold on. Through the one eye I can manage to open I just see another shadow, and then it whines pitifully, high-pitched and fading as a knife slips itself through its ribs.

I freeze for all of two seconds as its corpse goes limp on top of me, Abigail yanking the knife out, eyes wide and shocked. The next second I scrabble backwards, shoving it off of me, until my back hits the trench wall.

Fuck fuck _fuck_ it hurts, oh God, please tell me I still have my eye—

"Hey, hey, stay still."

I feel more than see Abigail's coat sleeve press down on the left side of my face, over my eye. It burns, the pressure against the marks marring my face, but it's easier to focus on that than anything else.

She draws her hand back and I squint at her through my right eye. "Can you open that one?"

Turns out I can. It burns like hell and everything's tinged blood red, and I can already feel it swelling, but I can still see. Everything's a bit foggy, although that might be the tears and the blood. No doubt tomorrow it'll be swelled shut, but I can still see. For now.

Abigail presses the gun into my hand and it helps to alleviate some of the shakiness in my limbs. She's trembling, too, but she presses her coat back over my eye as the blood drips down it steadily, eyes focused and careful.

"Thanks," I manage. Even talking hurts, the movement of my jaw pulling at the marks towards the bottom of my face. She nods, though, looking more unaffected than she has any right to as she switches hands, the end of her coat sleeve red with my blood.

"Did I mention I hate this fucking arena?" I croak out. She shakes her head silently and settles down more firmly next to me in the mud. Probably going to be bleeding for a while. It certainly feels like it.

Guess I better get used to it.

* * *

**Acacia Wilson ****—**** 16 years  
****District Seven Female**

* * *

Porter's getting worse.

The three of us had hoped and wished that it would be easy, but nothing's ever easy, not on kids who escape the Hunger Games or on kids who get thrown into them. No matter where you end up someone's kicking you down just as you start to get up.

Both Finnea and I had fallen asleep halfway through the night, and she had shaken me awake, hands rough on my shoulders, just before the sun rose again. He has a fever. It has to be just what she expected; with the grime and the rust and everything else, there's infection setting in, and every time he moves his face twists in pain even though he's asleep, fresh blood staining the makeshift bandages we've got wrapped around him.

So we have no choice but to sit here.

I think I've secretly always envied people who are religious, or who believe in something greater that'll happen to you after death, because right now I feel so fucking useless it hurts. No doubt there's someone back home praying for his life, begging for whatever deity exists to spare him and let him keep fighting. We don't have any of that in here. We don't even have sponsors to send us medicine in the hopes of keeping him alive.

Finnea falls asleep again midway through the day, caught between placing a damp rag on his head in the hopes that she can help in whatever miniscule way and her own needs. She's barely said anything all day. I don't really have anything in me to make her feel better. I didn't even think there was the possibility of us being allies.

It's a good thing she's here, I think. If she wasn't I'd be even more lost, even less help to him. So I'm grateful.

I know Porter has siblings. Four of them, all younger. Parents. Friends. And I can only hope that they're not watching and hating me for being so idle.

"Hey."

I start ever so slightly, turning my head towards where Porter's been lying the whole night. He's squinting at me, the edge of the flashlight's reach just allowing me to make out his features.

"Hey," I respond quietly, sliding over to him. "Look who finally decided to wake up."

He tries to smile and winces, grimacing when he tries to move. He rests his head back on the floor again, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His face is flushed from the fever and there are beads of sweat collecting at his hairline.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

I don't know how to respond to that, so I just press my lips together and look him straight in the eye. He stares back for all of two seconds before he loses the nerve to really face the facts, returning his gaze to the ceiling. I shuffle the last few inches towards him, until I can lean in just close enough so that he knows I'm there, hand brushing against his shoulder.

It's silent, except for the steady, sleep-heavy sound of Finnea's breathing and my heart, which I can practically feel in every part of my body. It's a miracle Porter can't hear it.

"I really don't wanna die," he whispers suddenly. I don't even have it in me to look at him anymore. He sounds more terrified, more defeated than I've ever heard him. The person I talked to on the train, who ran cackling down the hall from the Escort, who poked at his vegetables with the facial expression of a five year old, he's not there anymore.

"I know."

I can't tell if he's shaking, or if I am, with my hand on his shoulder. Maybe it's both of us.

I'm not the one dying. So I don't know why it feels like I am.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove ****—**** 18 years  
****District One Female**

* * *

We're two days in and just waiting for the moment where it all falls apart.

I know the Careers are dysfunctional more than not. Hell, Royal killed two members of the pack in her Games when it was necessary. I've seen it firsthand. Being a part of it, though, having to look over your shoulder every two seconds just to make sure someone's not raising their weapon, it's unsettling.

And the worst part is it's not just about me, anymore. If I survive this, when I survive this, I'll have a kid. I've prepared for so much in my life, but never for something like that.

Sleeping around in One is basically a hobby. So of course, the one time I do something remotely similar, with a friend of all people, this happens. Thanks, life. That's just the cherry on top of the sundae that is the Games.

I glance over my shoulder at Sheridan. She hasn't told anyone. At least not that I know of. Even if she did hate me, I don't think she'd ever tell anyone. In another situation, in another life, we could be friends. And I almost consider her one, right now. After everything, though, even so soon in this situation, I still value my life more. Value what could be my future child's life more. She knows that.

I really hope I don't have to be the one to kill her.

The wall is uncomfortable but it's the best spot to watch what's going on, so I hop off my perch on the weapons crate and drop myself down on the floor, shoulders digging into the metal of the bunker.

Hariwin keeps picking up his two-handed axe with one hand and slamming the blade into the ground. It buries itself deeper into the dirt every time he does it, and Amara's eyes get wider and wider every time. Ross is perched on a crate next to her, knees drawn up and spear tip resting on the ground, both hands locked in fists around the handle. I think killing the Ten kid might have helped him. He looks a little haunted behind the eyes, a little more paranoid, but I think if someone starts something, or if this whole place explodes, he might just stand up and fight.

Terron's being Terron. Eating an apple with a knife of an extremely inappropriate length, presumably just to be a douchebag. He keeps tossing food to the Eleven kid like he's a dog, who ignores him at first, and then starts throwing them back. His first throw hits Terron square in the forehead.

Sue me if I laughed. He had it coming.

The kid doesn't seem so bad. His name's Mulberry, which Sheridan and Amara soon found out. That's the only thing he'll tell them, and it's because they haven't threatened him. He doesn't seem to mind Ross too much either, if his position hunched in the corner behind Amara and Ross' chosen sitting spot is anything to go by.

At this point, we're just banking on Terron falling asleep so we can let him go. None of us really want to kill him. It has to happen eventually, but not like this.

I hope not like this.

A few minutes later Sheridan crosses over and drops to the ground beside me, crossing her legs and laying her spear down beside her. Both of us have guns. Terron's got one, though, and so does Hariwin. That's the scary part.

"You doing alright?" She asks me softly. I notice she keeps her gaze firmly fixed on the guys. It's good to know that we're on the same page.

"Never better," I say simply. I probably sound bitter. She gives me a small, tight smile.

"We're just sitting here waiting for the bomb to go off, aren't we?" She mutters under her breath. I sigh, but nod. It's the truth.

"Five bucks on Terron snapping first," I joke, leaning my shoulders back against the wall. It's not funny. I really wish it was, though. Sheridan doesn't laugh either, though, or even smile.

"We can take them," I tell her confidently. Something like determination settles in me. "You and me, and you know Ross is with us. We can."

Sheridan doesn't respond, just watches the way Terron's eyes light up when the kid snaps something back at him, the way Hariwin's eyes slide over all of us, careful, and the way Ross' fingers tighten around the spear, Amara tense and terrified and completely unable to do anything about it. She sighs deeply.

"I hope you're right. I really, really do."

* * *

Another 10 reviews. I love you all! I guess now is as good a time as ever.

There might not be any updates for a few weeks. I've got a long of stuff going on and not enough time for even that, so my writing is going to be sparse. x_x I'll try my best, but I might poof for a bit. Fear not, I'll be back to kill the remaining kids, just not immediately next week.

As always feel free to ask questions or leave predictions on what you think will happen and I'll do as good of a job as I can of answering them without giving too much away. Reviews motivate me, which I think you've all realized by now, so keep 'em coming!

Until next time.


	21. Madhouse

Arena, Day Three.

* * *

**Amara Williams ****— 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I wake the beginning of the third day and I know things are probably going to get bad again.

It can't be good, knowing that I'm just constantly waiting for someone to snap. It doesn't help that I'll be powerless to stop it when it finally does happen. Maybe that's sad, resigning myself to the fact that something _is_ going to happen, rather than thinking it only _might_.

I'm the first one to blink awake, save for Ross, who's leaning against the far wall, keeping watch. I don't think he's slept much since they got back, if at all. He was supposed to switch off with Sheridan halfway through the night but she's in the same spot she was last night, fast asleep. He glances over at me slowly when I push myself slightly upright, and then resumes his vacant stare out the opposite door.

It kind of feels like I'm alone in this. They're not trying to push me out, or at least the girls aren't, and Ross when he involves himself, but they don't push to have me around. They know I'm close to useless. I'm not contributing, I'm not killing, I'm not doing much of anything but letting them care for me when they remember to and not-really guarding when someone leaves.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair, shifting carefully until I'm in a better position. At least Sheridan did a solid job of stitching me up.

Slight shuffling catches my attention and I turn, just managing to catch the eye of the Eleven kid as he ducks back down behind his crate of choice at lightning speed. Mulberry, I remind myself. I can still feel him trying to stare at me through the crate. That or burn a hole right through it.

"You alright?" I ask quietly. It takes a moment, but eventually he re-appears, just enough so that the top half of his eyes are visible, glaring spectacularly.

"Fan-fucking-tastic, thanks."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah,_ let me go._"

I pause, gnawing at my lip. I want to. I really do. And I know I'm not the only one.

"You know I can't," I respond. He scoffs, nearly disappearing again.

"You volunteer for this and then you're too cowardly do to anything about the situation? Nice. Real nice," he spits out, still under his breath.

"I don't want to die," I snap a little more loudly than I intended to. Ross glances over at me. Hariwin rolls over and opens one eye, takes note of the situation, and promptly goes back to sleep. Mulberry freezes.

I feel like crying. There's only so much I can do, and what people are expecting of me is passing that by miles. I'm supposed to fight, yet be merciful, survive and stay sane. There's no medium to this, no middle-ground.

"Listen to me," I whisper. "Mulberry**—"**

"Bear."

"What?"

"It doesn't— it doesn't matter."

"Listen to me," I repeat. "You will get out of here. I promise you."

"How can you promise me that?" He asks, and there's genuine confusion in his voice. He's peeking over a little bit more than half, now. Misery's written everywhere on his face. And I can't promise him anything, can't have any certainty that he'll be able to get out before the bomb drops, or if he'll be able to pull himself out of the rubble. But I need to try.

"Because faith is all I have left right now," I admit, and his shuffling falls silent. I peer over my shoulder and he's staring at me, eyes wide and even more confused than they were before. He ducks back behind the crate again, and I feel more than see him lean back against it, mirroring my position on the other side.

"Thank you," Mulberry says quietly, so much so that I barely hear it.

"Don't thank me yet. Fight's not over."

"Good," he whispers, and this time, it's even quieter.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

_Thump._

I startle so violent I nearly smack my head against the wall, and then freeze. Elora freezes. Spens is nearly as still, pushing himself to his feet so quietly it's a miracle I even noticed him.

We all stare at the door in silence. There's the faintest sound of something sliding against the wide, metal door, and then nothing.

I scramble to my feet, wincing when my foot knocks against one of our packs. My sword is shaking in my hands. Who am I kidding, really. If there is something dangerous out there, the chances of me being the one to kill it are probably in the negatives. Either way, I still move to Spens' side, hoping that I'm at least prepared for whatever's on the other side.

We're still in the bunker. Maybe Elora was right. Maybe we should have moved somewhere else. Now we're trapped in here with no way out but the door, the door that none of us really want to test right now.

Elora grabs the back of my arm when I move to follow Spens, eyes wide. I shake my head at her. I'm not a coward. I'm not a killer, either, but I'm not making him go out there alone. My attempt to dislodge her arm fails spectacularly, and I only succeed in dragging her after the two of us.

Spens stops just at the threshold, spear in one hand, the other reaching for the wrought iron handle.

We all go still. Maybe one of us should've gotten a gun out.

He rips the door open so fast I barely manage to hop out of the way. Elora nearly chops my arm off at the elbow with her sickle. I expect to launch myself out after him, sword at the ready, only he doesn't move, silhouetted in the doorway, spear only raised half-heartedly.

"So," Elora says suddenly. "Are we dying?"

All of my breath leaves my lungs when I see the barely perceptible shake of Spens head. He crouches down, reaching out a hand for something by his feet. I lean around him, taking a cautious step outside. Silver. A parachute.

"What is it?" Elora questions, shoving her way in-between us. Now that I'm kneeling beside him, with the warm light of the morning washing across the ground rather than the gloom of the inside, it's a wonder it didn't make more noise when it smacked against the door. The staff attached to the parachute's strings is long and elegantly carved of dark wood, although it has a look about it that suggests it's almost impossible to break, unless the person breaking it had superhuman strength. Both of the ends are tipped with iron, molded into dangerous points

Elora lets out a low whistle.

My mind goes into overdrive immediately. We haven't done anything, not a single goddamn thing, to deserve this. To deserve any of this, really. Spens killed Astrid over two days ago. If they wanted to reward us then, they would have. Which means they're not rewarding us for what we've done. They're rewarding us for what we're going to do. The sponsors, the Gamemakers, they're telling us to get off our asses and move.

Spens must come to the conclusion at the same time I do, sending me a _look_ over the weapon on the ground. He stands up, ripping the parachute cords off the weapon and taking it with him. He slings the spear over his back and keeps the staff in-hand. Elora's already gathering our supplies and packs from the bunker.

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. I'm too busy screaming inside my head to notice when Spens move, but when he puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tightly, I nearly fall straight over. When I look up at him, there's something calm in his eyes. Prepared. But of course he is, because he volunteered for this. I sure as hell didn't.

"We're gonna be fine, hey?" He says simply, holding my eyes until I nod back at him. I know it's not true, but looking at him, I want to believe it. I really do.

I let him haul me to my feet, shoving my sword back in it's sheath, securing it across my back. I have no choice but to accept my backpack as Elora hurls it at my chest, grinning. The smile I give her back isn't near as close, nor convincing, but she must deem it satisfactory, because she grabs my arm, hits Spens lightly in the shoulder, and takes off down the nearest trench.

"C'mon, boys. We got business to take care of."

We're gonna be fine. As long as I keep telling myself that, we'll be fine.

The delusions nice. But I've never been one for believing in them.

* * *

**Estelle Galore ****— 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I'm scared of the only ally I have in this arena.

And on top of that, she's twelve.

Maybe I should've stayed with Amara and Camilla. At least I knew what they were capable of. Instead I got to watch my very small, very capable twelve year old ally shove a knife into someone's throat and walk away with barely any remorse in her eyes.

The only reason I haven't left her yet is because I'm scared of what will happen if I do. Will she kill me the second I try? Or worse, will she let me go, let me wander this arena alone until something hurls itself at me, and I'm left alone, dying in the mud, choking on my own blood.

We don't sit still for long. Cassia insists we keep moving, but I suspect we've been going on circles. That's what it feels like. I've stopped complaining. I'm smart enough not to, now.

It keeps hitting me that I didn't even know the Three girl's name. Didn't know how old she was. Not a single thing about her, other than the look of blatant fear in her eyes before she died. I don't want to end up like that. I won't.

We've definitely been going in circles. I've seen this specific tangle of barbed wires at least three times now.

Fuck it. Fuck it all, I'm not doing this.

"Cassia."

She doesn't slow, doesn't break stride, doesn't even turn to look at me.

"What?"

"I'm done. Done following orders. There's no_ point_ to this, anymore."

She does stop, this time, glancing over her shoulder at me. For the first time since that first night, there's something other than that careful blankness in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" She questions softly, eyebrows furrowed. She genuinely looks confused. Dammit, she's so young, and she shouldn't be here, but she also shouldn't have killed someone, had no right to.

"This whole charade. Being scared to fucking ask you something because I'm scared I'll end up with a knife in the neck. What are we even doing anymore?" I demand, voice rising. I told myself not to get angry. That I'd have to kill people to get out of here. But it doesn't matter anymore.

Cassia just stares back at me. "You think I wanted to?"

"All I do know is that I've watched these things for as long as I can remember and I've never seen someone like you so eager to do it. We could've walked away, she would've never known! She wouldn't have died!"

"She had to!" Cassia yells. "Everyone has to, don't you get that? Only one of us is getting out of here. I don't know why you're questioning it, Estelle. Look where you grew up. I'm sorry people like you, people who train for it, people who volunteer to slaughter others, don't get why I had to. You wanna see people who are eager to kill others? Have fun going back home, then. That, or look in the mirror. Because you trained for it too."

It's probably the most I've ever heard her say in one go, and I'm stunned into silence. Something like fury rises up in me the next second. I'm nothing like anybody back in One. God, anyone here can see it, everyone in the Capitol can. There's almost no one at home who even wants me back. Cassia must see something in my face change, or realize that she shouldn't have said it. Her face falls. But I know that she didn't regret it.

I don't know if I'm talking about the words, or her killing the Three girl. It doesn't matter anymore.

I turn around and start walking in the opposite direction.

"Estelle!"

I don't turn around. Don't even give any indication that I heard her.

_"Estelle!"_

No footsteps follow me. My heart's in my throat, and the overwhelming feeling to cry that plagued me during training is coming back. I keep telling myself it doesn't matter. Not anymore, not ever.

I don't need her. I don't need anyone. I never have.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

My axe slams into the back of the last mutt's head, effectively crushing it's skull. It's brain is splattered across my shoes. If that's what that even is. I poke the corpse with my foot, head tilted. They're rats. Giant rats, that almost come up to my knee. Their teeth are as long as my fingers and they smell like a dumpster.

There's a pile of them around me. Terron's got an equally big pile about 30 feet away. Judging from the silence from the other side of the Cornucopia bunker, Camilla and Sheridan took care of that side. There had been a swarm of them, presumably because Ferrox Mervaine was a dick and got bored of his Careers sitting and doing nothing for a day. They're easy to kill, though. One kick in the right direction and they run away squealing, if you didn't snap their ribs like twigs.

More of a nuisance than anything else, really.

It occurred to me that we shouldn't have left Ross and Amara with the Eleven kid, but considering the rats would probably be the same size as him, I don't think he would've chanced it. Good thing, too. Would've gotten messy, and I'm not in the mood to clean up.

I kick another one of the corpses out of my way, shuffling back to the bunker.

"Hey, man, you wanna go do something?"

I glance at Terron out of the corner of my eye. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Throw a party. Rob a bank. Find somebody to kill. What do you think?" He says, throwing his hands in the air. He's really dramatic, I've noticed. Guarantee there's some people that find it endearing. I do not.

"Not really in the mood."

"Since when are _you_ not in the mood to kill someone? Don't tell me you've gone all soft, Saylor."

I ignore him and resume clearing a path for myself. I swear the bodies of these things keep getting bigger. My foot's starting to hurt.

"Jesus, Astrid fucked you up more than I thought. Or were you just more badass than you thought? Can't take the heat anymore, now that you've gotten in here? There's gotta be a reason," Terron muses. I keep ignoring him. Or try to.

I'm tired. More tired than I thought I'd be.

"I could kill _you_," I say thoughtfully, out of the blue. Right now, it's the only thing that sounds remotely satisfying. Terron shuts up. I just barely glance over my shoulder and he's grinning maniacally. It's a smile that's made for war, too dangerous to be anything other than downright insanity.

"You're fucking crazy, you know," I point out.

"They used to say that about you, you know," he fires back immediately, still grinning. I do know that. Nobody tried to make it a secret.

I don't feel crazy. I kind of used to, now that I think about it. Like I was striving for something that was never even close to me.

Terron claps a hand on my shoulder, hard and too strong to be friendly. His grin's way too close to my face. It's unsettling. Like a shark's about to eat me and I can't do jack shit about it.

"So join the club, dude. We're all crazy here."

* * *

**Finnea Mason — 17 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

I remember what I thought, about fate. After I got reaped I managed to convince myself that it didn't exist. That, or it was just extremely unkind to our particular family and any other random person it chose that day. To Acacia. To Porter.

He started hallucinating in the middle of the night. Nearly woke up screaming, if we hadn't managed to stop him. It had taken what feels like forever to convince him that he was safe, that he was going to be okay, and I knew how bad it was when he finally slumped back to the floor and _believed us_.

Acacia's been tense all morning. She rotates between sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, watching the ragged rise and fall of his chest, and pacing across the room, careful not to wake him. I've taken to sitting in silence by his side, using whatever scraps of fabric we can find to wipe the sweat off his forehead and cheeks and across his entire body.

"Acacia."

She stops and turns to me, running a hand through her hair. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"No, not— not that. I can't stop, because I don't know what the hell else I'm supposed to do," she admits, resuming her pacing. "Is that what they want? I don't know what the fuck to do, because he's dying, we're watching him die."

She's Johanna. Not me. She's all fire and adrenaline and she's angry and has every right to be. We're sitting ducks, in here, and we can't move with him. We're stuck here, and we've run out of options. If we don't do something soon they'll send something after us and then we'll all be dead.

Porter stirs beside me, mumbling something unintelligible, fingers tightening uselessly against the ground. Acacia slides to a halt just in front of me, watching as his eyes snap open, wide and frantic. Instantly I shuffle the last few inches of distance towards him, clasping one of his hands in between both of mine. I feel every muscle in his body tense, confused, until his eyes land on me. It must take him a few seconds, but then the terror in his eyes fades out when he realizes who it is. Acacia crouches down beside me, carefully, and the panic nearly blossoms back up again until she puts a steady hand on his arm, trying to pull the corner of her lips into something resembling a smile.

He opens his mouth to speak and breaks off into a fit of violent coughing, pain twisting across his face at the slightest of movements. More beads of sweat roll off his temples and I can see his hands shaking, tightening as he tries to bring himself back.

"You know," he starts, voice strained. "My sister always said I'd die doing something stupid, and then my dad would jump in and say that it would be my friends daring me to do something, and they'd come knocking on our door and have to apologize to my parents for daring me to jump out of a tree. Or something."

Porter tries to laugh but it comes out as more of a grimace. Acacia, who shuffled a bit closer as he was speaking, does smile, barely there.

"Think they're both right," she says softly, and I'm surprised at how steady her voice is.

"Probably," he responds, and I can see the moment where his gaze just disappears again. Still conscious but barely there, in the true sense of the word. "You have to tell them I'm sorry, alright, just tell them because I don't— I don't know what's going to happen and I'm so fucking scared—"

I hush him gently, feeling tears burning at the corner of my eyes, because I never thought I'd hear him admit defeat, or terror, or anything that wasn't strength. He trails off, eyes half open and mumbling something under his breath, probably nonsense and things that only make sense to him. I raise my head and meet Acacia's eyes, almost wincing as I do so. She's got nothing in her anymore, no expression, no sign that there's anything happening to her.

My eyes land on the knife in her belt just as she looks up at me, eyes steely. I swallow hard, feeling the burn of the tears harder in my eyes. I nod. For a second we're both still, like we're trying to will ourselves away from this place, but all we have is the silence and his mumblings and the thought of his whole family back home, clutching at each other and crying.

Acacia moves to his other side and takes his free hand, lacing their fingers together. I don't think he even registers her presence, anymore.

_Talk_, she mouths at me. When she slides the knife soundlessly out of her belt, I can see that her fingers are trembling.

"Uh," I croak weakly, and the half-hearted glare Acacia shoots me is enough for me to swallow back the sob rising in my throat and blink back the tears. "Y'know, you always talk about your siblings, but you've never asked about mine. Guess your ego's too big. I've got two, though, both younger sisters. Ainsley, she's uh, a bit of a handful, but I love her. A lot. I mean, we fight, but it doesn't really mean anything, at least not to me. And there's Rosalind. At the goodbyes she didn't even know why I was going, probably thought it was a vacation or something."

Acacia shifts the slightest bit, knife clutched in her hand. I trail off, noticing how Porter's fever-glazed eyes are locked on me. He almost looks content. Probably doesn't even see the danger, the knife.

"I think they're gonna be okay, though," I continue, for his sake. "With or without me, they'll survive. And yours will too, alright? They're related to you, they have to be."

Porter smiles, faintly and wavering, in the same moment Acacia slips the knife in-between his ribs, straight into his heart.

I can't help the sob that rips its way out of my throat, the tears finally spilling over when his eyes slip shut, breath stuttering to a halt. On his other side, Acacia is stone, completely still with her hands still wrapped around the knife. She won't even look at me.

I don't know how long the two of us sit there, but eventually the cannon sounds, slamming into the walls. We both remain in silence.

Eventually Acacia rises to her feet. I notice she leaves the knife. I watch as she steps over his legs, careful, and gathers up her backpack, shoving the few items on the ground inside and slinging it over her bag.

I wait for her to leave, listening for the sound of the door slamming shut. More silence.

"Are you coming or not?"

I freeze and look over my shoulder. Acacia's standing in the doorway, turned away from me, but still here. For a moment I don't even know how I'm going to get up; my legs feel like they wouldn't work even if I wanted them to. I force myself to unlock Porter's fingers from mine, laying his arm down on the floor beside him. Shakily, I rise to my feet, brushing my knees off and trying to ignore the blossom of blood across his chest.

I shoulder my pack and blink away the last of the tears, crossing over to Acacia's side. She yanks the door open. In the split second of sun we get before it disappears behind the clouds, I see the tears wavering in her eyes.

"We should bring him outside," I say quietly. The hovercraft won't be able to get him in there and I don't want to imagine how long these Games could last.

"No," Acacia decides instantly. "No. They don't deserve him. They never will."

Together, the two of us let the door slip shut, and we leave him behind.

* * *

**17th. Porter Crankshaw, District Seven Male.**

* * *

I'm sorry? No I'm really not.

I am sorry for how long this has taken. Truth is lots of stuff was going on and I hit a major block. Three out of these five POVs were written tonight, actually; I got a big surge of inspiration at a really random time. I don't know if updates will occur every Sunday for the next little bit, because that inspiration could go away any second now. I've already started the next one, and I'm going to try my best to keep this on track, but please don't hate me if it doesn't.

Anyway, I'm the President of the Hariwin Saylor Defense Club. The end.

Until next time.


	22. Together Or Not At All

Arena, Day Four.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

It scares me how much I'd do for them.

Kiero and Elora feel like they're been here forever, rather than a few days. A week? I don't even know how long it's been. But I feel like I've had them around for longer than what makes sense. A few days doesn't translate into what their friends must know about them, love about them. In reality, I'm almost an outsider. I don't know their birthdays, or their favourite things, or anything that warrants friendship, and they're still here. They still feel like friends.

"Hey, when are your birthdays?"

Kiero and Elora both glance over their shoulders at me, wearing twin expressions, one eyebrow raised. I still don't know how they do that. I also don't know why I'm not the one walking in front with the longest range weapon we have outside of the guns, but I never want to argue with them.

I see Elora fighting off the edges of a smile. She knows what I'm doing. I'm doing what she's been doing for days, only I'm not usually involved. At least not much. It's like an endless, numberless game of twenty questions.

"April 4th," she replies instantly. And then, she elbows Kiero in the ribs. He nearly yelps. "What about you?"

He glares at her half-heartedly, and then turns back to me. "April 23rd."

"Hey! We're almost birthday twins!"

"You're a year older than me," Kiero grumbles, but he still lets her lock him in what she probably thinks is a headlock. It's not even close.

"What about you?" Kiero asks from the tangle of her arms.

I didn't really expect them to ask me. Didn't expect them to care. No one really has in a long time.

"February 16th."

"Ah, winter. As cold as your heart," Elora teases, reaching back to poke me in the chest. Kiero struggles free of her other arm and resumes his walking. I can't help but roll my eyes, rolling them harder at her delighted grin.

"What else do you want to know, oh great one?"

I shrug. "Didn't really think this far."

Elora rolls her eyes this time. Kiero takes a swig from his water bottle.

"Okay, random fact time," Elora starts. "I used to do drugs."

Kiero spits out his water. I trip over a plank of wood and nearly impale myself on my staff. Wonder what the sponsors would think of that.

"Please stop doing that," Kiero chokes out.

"What?" She demands. "I said used to!"

She pats her hand across his back, but he only coughs more. She must notice me looking at her curiously, because she shrugs her shoulders.

"My family was kind of fucked up. Still is, I guess. My brother got out of it, though, and I sort of followed. Realized I needed to get my shit together instead of wasting my life. So I'm fixing it. Fixed it. Ambitious, but I'm getting there, I think," she says simply. Kiero lets out a cough that sounds like he's dying. She frowns, patting him on the back again.

She's trying to fix herself, and then they threw her in here. The urge to throw myself in front of whatever tries to hurt them returns. Great.

"Anyway," she continues. "Your turn. Kiero's too busy choking."

"I hate you," he splutters. "And I'm fine."

"Great! Your turn, then."

Kiero gets that pained look on his face where he fights for something to say because he knows Elora won't let him off the hook until he does. The look's appearing more frequently, and the more I see it, the funnier it gets. He always looks ashamed, or something of the sort, when we start doing this thing. Says he's not interesting enough. He's easily the most normal of the three of us, and is probably one of the only normal ones in the entire arena. I envy him for it.

"I have a younger sister. Vero. She's 14. I don't know, I just don't feel like I try hard enough with her. Don't get me wrong, I love her, always have and always will, hugged her at the goodbyes and told her I'd miss her, but it's just always felt off. Still did then. We're different, and I ... I don't know."

"Feels like you could've done more?"

Kiero looks up at me with a bit of surprise. "Yeah, I guess. Just never knew where to start."

Elora desperately looks like she wants to hug him. She does wrap an arm around his shoulder and somehow manage to tuck him under her own despite being several inches shorter. Elora looks like she should be bigger. You hear her voice, turning around to expect this larger than life person, raring to go, and you get the complete opposite. Every time she opens her mouth she makes up for it. Kiero's faded, sometimes, like when he realizes he can't fix everything or save everyone, but sometimes I'll catch something like bravery on his face when I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He's stronger than he realizes. They both are.

"Okay!" Elora says cheerily, plastering a smile on her face. "Finally your turn, Spens."

I'm going to ruin it all over again.

"My parents went missing a year ago. Don't know where. Don't know why. Three of us had breakfast in the morning, I went to school, they went to work, got home and they never did."

They both gape at me. Or at least Elora does; Kiero does a better job at hiding it.

I get a total of two seconds before Elora's arms are wrapped around me, crushing my ribs. Definitely bigger than she looks. And stronger. For a few moments I stand there, feeling like I forgot what the concept of hugging even is. Hesitantly, I wrap my arms around her, not nearly as tight as her own are. I'm just tall enough to rest my chin on the top of her head. And it feels right. Impossibly fucking right, when it shouldn't, especially when Kiero comes over of his own accord where Elora usually pulls him in. She wraps one of her arms around his waist and I free one of my own to hold him there. I haven't had this in a long time. Didn't think I would ever again.

It scares me. It scares me more than I thought anything ever would.

* * *

**Cassia Winters ****— 12 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

I spend hours looking for Estelle.

I don't know how she got away from me so quickly. I didn't think it was even impossible for her to move that fast, let alone disappear completely. I still try though. I all but chased her off without even realizing it.

It takes being alone to realize how hard it actually is. I'm not to go around saying she was helpful, but having her there felt right. Knowing someone was there, someone who had my back no matter how feeble the actual attempt was, it was nice.

I try to feel bad for killing the Three girl. But I don't feel bad in the way I think Estelle wants me to. Wanted me to. I keep having to remind myself that she's gone. Every time I look over my shoulder I expect to see here there, picking her way through the mud, splattered through with it and damp from the rain, but still somehow managing to look like the princess she probably back is back home.

My brain's screaming at me. _Feel bad, feel bad_.

I feel worse for pushing Estelle away without even realizing it than killing someone who was barely three years older than me.

Maybe that's because I didn't owe the Three girl. She wasn't anything to me, as much as it stings to admit. But Estelle, for all of her annoying tendencies and hair flipping and vague confused hand gestures, gave me a chance when no one else did. Came to me desperate for help but stayed because she wanted to. And I didn't realize it until now, but I think she cared. Cared right up until she saw me shove a knife into a girl's neck and walk away from the body before it had even cooled.

I want to slap myself. I think I care now, too. I don't want her to die hating me.

I don't want to die without trying to get her back.

There's a small little archway just ahead and I hop down into the trench it bridges over, slipping under it. It reminds me way too much of that night, but it's a brief shelter from the wind. I allow myself a few moments to wolf down a protein bar from my bag and adjust the knife in my belt. The previous nights of rain have washed the blood away. Seconds later, and I'm setting off again, jogging up the slightest incline that the trench was provided, back to higher ground.

I don't know if I would consider this a fresh start. But I'm going to try.

* * *

**Acacia Wilson — 16 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

I never thought it would end up being Finnea and I. Thought it would be me and Porter against the world, or something else equally cliché. I didn't really give her a chance. I saw the dainty look about her and heard the last name and wrote her off. Which, in retrospect, was stupid.

Yeah, I'm admitting it. But what can I do now? She's here with me and that has to be good enough.

There's a silence between us where Porter should be. Where he probably is, honestly. I still look over my shoulder expecting to see him flailing around in the mud, or glaring at him when he makes a dumb joke. Finnea notices the first few times I do it, but doesn't say anything.

"You didn't have to let me come with you, you know."

I glance at Finnea out of the corner of my eye. "I know."

"Then why did you?"

I didn't want to be alone. Didn't want to let somebody else die because I was powerless to stop it. Didn't want to be the one to do it, not again. I don't let myself say any of this, though. I shrug my shoulders in response.

"If it was pity, or anything like that, I can just leave—"

"It wasn't pity, Mason. Not even close," I tell her quietly. Something nearly snaps inside me when she trails off on the word _leave_. I don't think she will, not if I tell her not to, but the doubt is still lingering in her eyes. Can't say I blame her. I pushed her away the entire way here, not the other way around.

She kind of reminds me of Ivy, in weird ways. Not prepared for the world around her but still fighting like hell for it anyway. Though, I guess that's me too. If I'm going to admit it, it might as well be now. I can do whatever I want back home, spit whatever I want back in people's faces, but I still wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready to shove a knife between the ribs of the one person I thought I could care about.

"Promise me something, alright?" I ask suddenly. Finnea doesn't even start, just turns her head towards me in the slightest, more focused on clearing a path for herself in the mud.

"Sure," she replies easily.

"Promise me that one of us is going home."

She stops, staring at me in the fading light. The clouds are coming back.

"Acacia—"

"Don't. I know you can't promise me that, I just ... I didn't kill him for nothing. I won't let that be for nothing," I manage. God, when did this happen. When did this become so fucked up that I can't even form proper sentences? Understanding seems to bleed into her eyes, though.

She grabs my hand before I register what happened, squeezing tight. "One of us is going home. You have a sister right? Twin?"

It's not so much of a question as an _if I get home, I'll take care of her_. I allow myself a moment to squeeze back. _I'll protect yours if it's me instead of you_.

Finnea smiles, wobbly and unsure, but it's the best thing I've seen all day. She knows what that means, or at least she think she does.

"Okay," I start, pushing the shakiness out of my voice. "Enough of this sappy shit. Let's go kick some ass."

She smiles, full and real this time, letting go of my hand to steady her hand around the hilt of her knife. I can feel the weight of my own knives hanging heavy in my jacket, but being weighed down has never felt so good.

* * *

**Abigail Locey — 17 years**  
**District Ten Female**

* * *

Quill kind of looks like a badass now.

Or, at least he would, if his eye wasn't nearly swollen shut. But he's got four and a half scratches from his forehead, straight through the eyebrow, skipping across his eye to the cheek below, stretching nearly to his chin. He looks like he fought a rabid bear and won.

He also glares at me every time I point this out. It's not Falco's teasing or Dess' light-hearted jokes, but it's something.

Am I incapable of being allies with someone without attempting friendship at the same time? It feels that way. He's closed off and angry under the surface and he's nothing like my old allies, but at the same time, I don't want him to be. Their delusions made me feel safe and then I got them both ripped away from me in less than twelve hours.

It doesn't make sense that I'm the one left. I didn't want to be the leader; I never have been. But where I felt like I was leading Falco and Dess around, trying to keep them from falling apart, I feel like me and Quill stand on equal ground.

He reminded me, once and never again, that the one point between our scores said otherwise. It was the first time I heard him make a joke and something in my heart skipped with the memory of being happy back home, being happy during training, just being happy in general.

In short, he's not perfect. But I've realized really quickly that I'm probably as far from it as it gets. I'm torn between missing them and being grateful they didn't have to go through this, hating Ross and not wanting to blame him for something like this, no matter how much blame he takes for it.

Quill pokes me in the shoulder. I blink at him. I hadn't even realized I'd been stuck in my own head. Seems like that's been happening a lot lately.

"You gonna make it?" He asks me, dead serious. The reply I start is cut off the second I focus on how he's trying to stare at me out of the eye that, really, might as well be entirely swollen shut. I can practically feel him trying to burn a whole through his eyelid. A smile fights it's way onto my face, and his glare only gets more spectacular.

He starts walking away. I know it's joke, and I try to smother my laughter, but it doesn't work.

"I'm sorry! Hey, I saved your life! Or at least your eye. You can't be mad at me!"

The look he gives me says he very clearly can be.

"Okay, okay, I'm actually sorry," I promise him. "I think."

He rolls his eyes. Eye. It keeps getting funnier. Dammit.

We lapse into silence, traversing a rather difficult part of the path Quill's been making through the mud. I lose count of the times I slip, nearly catapulting myself sideways onto the ground. With the look of the mud here, I'd probably sink into it and drown. One time, Quill grabs the back of my jacket, steadying my arm with the other. He doesn't say anything, and I don't even thank him, but I can see it in his eyes. He cares. More than he wants to.

Feels like we're in the same boat. I need to get my feelings checked.

"Y'know, I don't think I ever thanked you for that. Saving my life. Or my eye. Whatever, doesn't really matter. So thanks."

I blink rapidly once again, sliding my foot down the slightest of inclines.

"You don't have to thank me for that," I point out. "We're allies, isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

He shrugs. "Some people would beg to differ."

It takes me back to the bloodbath. Falco and I left Dess. I left Falco and got back just in time to see the aftermath of his death. Quill's the first one I've really saved. And then there's the look in Quill's eyes, sometimes, and I know he's thinking about the ally he left behind.

"Well, that's not how it works anymore," I say, knocking my shoulder into his. "So you better not let _me_ lose an eye, or something equally stupid."

He shakes his head. I think he's laughing under his breath. That's a weird sight.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

**Terron Calvert — 18 years**  
**District Two Male**

* * *

Alright, that's it. I'm bored.

It was only a matter of time. These allies of mine are boring as shit. If anything, this is their fault.

Now I just have to figure out what to do.

I draw a nonsense pattern in the dirt with the tip of my boot, twirling a knife between my fingers. I give myself a few minutes to take stock of the room. It's a shame no one's asleep. Amara's hobbling across the bunker with Camilla and Ross' help, testing out her weight on her bad leg. She's not faltering as much anymore. Sheridan has her back to me, leaning against one of the door frames, staring outside. It's like she can feel my gaze on the back of her head, because she turns around, catching my eye and holding it. I smile sunnily, offering a wave. She turns around.

"Don't do anything stupid."

I whirl. Hariwin's stopped pacing the room and is standing not far away. I'm the only one that heard him say it.

"Me?" I feign innocence. "I would never."

He stares at me impassively. I smile again.

"If you do something, you'll die. You're not that stupid," he says calmly. I didn't know calmly was in Hariwin Saylor's vocabulary.

"I beg to differ."

"About the dying part, or about the stupid part?"

I don't bother with a response. I watch Ross help lower Amara to the crate she'd been occupying previously. The Eleven rat peeks his head over the top of it, glaring at me. I wave again, this time at him. Amara stares at me. Ross stares at me. Hariwin's eyes are boring a hole into the side of my head.

Jesus, what is everyone's problem?

Oh well, guess it's time to find out.

Hariwin doesn't have time to rip the knife out of my hand, nor does Amara have time to react. She gets a split second of ice cold terror when she sees me raise it, and nothing else.

It flies across the room and buries itself in her forehead. Not even time to scream. Sheridan whips around just in time to see her slip sideways off the crate, dropping to the ground with a hollow _thud_.

Silence. And then a cannon.

Now_ everyone's_ staring at me. Excellent.

The Eleven kid's eyes are wide with terror, staring at Amara's body over the crate. Ross has her body lying across his lap, fingers on her neck, even though hello, _cannon_, she's dead buddy, give it up. Sheridan's jaw is on the floor, spear already half-raised towards me. Camilla's got a type of rage written across her face I don't even think I can name. And then there's Hariwin, who's not looking at anybody, hands locked vice tight around his axe.

"You're dead," Camilla snarls, already starting forward. I hold my hands up.

"Now now, let's talk about this rationally**—"**

"Shut the fuck up, what the_ fuck_ is wrong with you?" She yells. Ross stands up, lowering her body to the floor, blood that had dripped from the wound in her forehead splattered across his lap. Sheridan grabs Camilla's arm before she can start forward again, shaking her head carefully.

"Why?" Sheridan asks, voice even.

"Why? Why, isn't that always the golden question. She's useless. Or was, I guess. Good riddance. You all are, really. It was only a matter of time," I say simply, shrugging. All of them are looking at me with various shades of disbelief, but no one's moving towards me. I look towards Hariwin, giving him a very clear look. See, I can handle this. Told you so. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

Something sharp, very sharp, flashes it's way across my upper arm. I feel the faint trickle of blood soak through my sleeve. I look up, raising an eyebrow.

Sheridan lowers her arm, but it's Camilla's knife that's buried in the wall behind me. Looks like Four is finally standing up and doing something.

I know very, very clearly that she missed on purpose. The look in her eyes is telling me she won't miss again.

"Leave, or you're dead."

I never knew my allies were capable of such venom. Admittedly, the cut stings, but not enough to hinder me. Not at all. No wounds ever have. With an irritated sigh, I rip the machete out of my belt, snatching up a sword off the ground as I stride into the middle of the room. No one else moves. I turn until I've caught each of their eyes.

"So, who's first?"

They expected me to leave. That much is evident. Hariwin is still looming behind me. The rest of them will try to put me down. As long as I have him, we'll do the opposite. We'll walk out of here just as planned. Terrorize the arena until the final showdown where we nearly rip each other to shreds before one of us comes out victorious. The audience will eat it up. I'll walk out of here a legend.

Ross and Sheridan both tighten their grips on their spears. Camilla has a knife in each hand. No one's even going for the guns.

So we're settling this the old fashioned way, then.

Good. It's always been my favorite.

* * *

**16th. Amara Williams, District One Female.**

* * *

Do you even know how many PMs I got asking when this was going to happen? Patience. Patience. I told you it would. I just didn't tell you it was going to be Terron. I told you not to point fingers at Hariwin early, did I not. Anyway. Sorry to Amara. Sad casualty, unfortunately. Sorry to Bear for having to witness that. Can I have some predictions for what everyone thinks is going to happen? Hopefully it'll live up to your expectations. It's pretty great in my head.

In other news, no one in the Spens/Kiero/Elora (or "The Holy Trinity" as I'm calling them) alliance is hetero and you bet your ass I ship the three of them. No you can't stop me. I'm the author. Dammit.

Also, you'd love how proud of myself I am for getting people on the Hariwin train. Ha.

Until next time.


	23. Gonna Wreck You

Arena, Day Four.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax — 12 years  
District Eleven Male**

* * *

So much happens at once I don't get the chance to pick something to focus on.

Camilla lunges at Terron, and the first knife she throws whistles through the spot his head had been a second too slow. He swings at her with the machete he's got in his left hand. She darts out of the way and Sheridan takes her spot. It's easier, with the spear, to get closer to him. Camilla's knives aren't anything to defend with.

It takes me a rapid, blinking second to realize that neither of the boys are doing anything. Hariwin's still standing just behind where Terron had been. Ross is standing two feet in front of me, right next to Amara's body, a gun pointed at Hariwin's head.

He won't pull the trigger. It's a precautionary. They don't know whose side he's on.

I don't know if he has a side that's anything but his own.

Camilla screams something foul as Terron's sword just manages to swipe the barest edge of her cheek, drawing blood. He continues with the momentum of the swing and slams the blunt end of the machete into Sheridan's face, sending her sprawling to the ground, blood dripping from her nose.

Ross seems to realize the girls are fucked the same second I do. Why Terron got a 10 is beyond me. He should've gotten a 50.

In the next second, Ross grabs my arm, quite literally lifts me up and over the crate, and starts dragging me directly towards the fight. He also drops the gun he's been aiming. Hariwin doesn't move.

Alright. Nope. Nope. I didn't sign up for this. Fuck no.

For a second I think he's going to hurl me into the fight purely to use me as a distraction for Terron. I'm small enough that Ross could throw me into his face pretty easily. Instead of throwing me into it, he turns so I'm farther away from it than he is and slams his spear into the back of Terron's knee as he moves. He goes down in a heap half on top of Sheridan, who doesn't even bother struggling to get free, and punches him square in the face. Sheridan doesn't look like much of a brawler, but the satisfying _crack_ his nose makes is good enough for me.

"Go!" Ross yells at me, and he shoves me half towards the door, too focused on the fight to really make me.

I book it. And then I hesitate. I'm half out the door when I turn. They're kicking up so much dust on the floor it's impossible to tell where Camilla ends and where Sheridan begins, where Terron's arms even are, the silver flash of Ross' spear before it just misses his throat.

Something cracks again, horrifically loud. Sheridan screams. A lot bigger than just a nose, then. Probably an arm.

I somehow manage to make my eyes look up. Hariwin's moving now. But not towards me.

I run.

* * *

**Sheridan Ariss — 18 years  
District Four Female**

* * *

I know as soon as Terron gets his hand around my arm that I'm done for.

Something snaps, just above my elbow. And I've broken bones and gotten hit before and it still doesn't prepare me for the pain. He keeps his hand on my arm and slams a foot into the back of my knees and flings me what feels like halfway across the room.

He did the same to Camilla not a minute before, minus the arm snapping. There's no way she doesn't have a concussion. There's blood dripping into her eyes. Terron's machete nearly catches Ross in the eye, who comes up to block it with the end of the spear. Ross won't beat him on his own. There's no way in hell.

Footsteps stride past me. For a second I think I'm hallucinating. And then Hariwin's fist slams into Terron's face.

Definitely hallucinating.

It's a lot harder than my punch, and mine was pretty damn hard. There's a fountain of blood dripping from his nose, straight into his mouth. He gets a second to grin, teeth full of blood, before Hariwin slams into him fully, taking both of them to the ground.

Ross looks like he's going to pass out from sheer surprise rather than bloodloss. Camilla staggers to her feet. I push myself up on my good arm, gritting my teeth against the fresh wave of pain that rolls through my body. A second later Ross has an arm around me, yanking me up off the ground, and Camilla's back in it. The second Terron gets the upper hand, rolling the two of them so he's on top of Hariwin, Camilla shoves a knife into the back of his shoulder, narrowly missing his neck when he tries to move away. He acts like it's not there.

Hariwin's head slams into Terron's. Both of them are spitting at each other, furious and angry and all adrenaline. Camilla can't get a clean shot without risking stabbing Hariwin straight through the head.

I never thought I'd have to worry about that being a problem, but here we are.

Hariwin's bigger but Terron's faster, able to kick and punch and then squirm away with seconds to spare. He flashes a knife across Hariwin's ribs, slams a knee into his stomach, and lurches to his feet, stomping a foot across his fingers for good measure. He's covered in blood, his face looking like something straight out of a slasher flick, lines of it dripping down his cheeks and onto his jacket. And he won't stop smiling.

Camilla's only got three knives left. I start running.

I try to keep my arm tucked against my body, but every time my feet thump against the ground it feels like my arm's being snapped all over again. Ross is right behind me.

She somehow manages to block the swing of Terron's sword against the slim edge of her blade. He's stronger than her. Not by much, but it's enough. He starts pushing back, sword inching closer to her face, smile as sharp as the weapon in his hand. He brings the machete around with his other hand, and I see it arcing towards her stomach, seconds from getting there.

Damn it all.

I abandon the spear, yanking a knife out of my belt. It'll get in the way. And then I slam into his legs.

My arm hurts so much it almost wasn't worth it, until I send him crashing to the ground. Again. His head cracks back against the ground. There's not much I can do with one arm, until I see Hariwin's boot slam down, inches from my own, and pin one of Terron's to the ground. The fingers in Hariwin's one hand are smashed to shit from Terron's own boot but he still drops, prying loose the machete out of his hands until he releases it onto the ground. He's struggling under me like a bat out of hell, feet kicking everywhere. Camilla yanks me off of him, Ross rips the sword out of his other hand, and Hariwin hauls him up in one clean, quick motion, locking his arms around him.

"Fucking do it!" He yells, spitting blood out of his mouth. Terron will find a way to slide out of his hold soon. There's blood dripping down Hariwin's side and there's only so much he can do without screwing up his hand even more.

I rip Ross' spear out of his hands. I'm done playing around. This isn't something I signed up for. This isn't who I was taught to be. But it is now.

I plunge the spear straight through his stomach. Terron keeps his legs under him for a few seconds. It's enough. He rips one of his arms free of Hariwin's grip, fingers scrabbling against the edge of his jacket. The flash of the gun is too quick.

"Sheridan, _move!_"

It's Ross, or maybe Camilla, I'll probably never know, that tries to rip me out of the way not a second after the bullet rips through my chest. It's definitely Camilla that screams as the force sends me back into her, her arms just coming up to catch me.

It hurts. Dead center. Missed the heart. It hurts. It hurts too much.

I see the wobbly, manic smile Terron sends my way just before Hariwin drops him to the ground. The smile's still frozen on his face even as his eyes glass over. Dead. But not quick enough.

It takes a team effort to lower me to the ground enough to lay me in Camilla lap. It hurts to breathe. It might've hit one of my lungs. I can't tell through all the blood seeping through my shirt.

"Hey, hey, look at me," Camilla says softly. Her head's stopped bleeding, but it's still bright down the side of her face. Ross crouches down on my other side, looking at a loss for what to do, eyes straying to Terron's bloody corpse every time he can't make himself look at me.

"It's okay," I wince. My arm feels like it's on fire, but my chest feels worse. "It really is. Promise."

It's not. My mom's probably screaming, my dad sitting there in horrified silence. Cameron might be crying. She's too strong for her own good, sometimes.

"It's not, it's not fucking okay—"

I fold my good hand over the one she's got pressed tight to the wound. Blood seeps through both of our fingers. I just nod, though, giving her a strained smile, and Camilla never seemed like the type of girl to cry, only she looks like she's going to now.

"Don't worry, you got this. You always did," I manage. It's getting harder to talk. Feels like someone is pulling the air from my lungs the longer I try.

"You too," I say to Ross. He swallows and makes himself look at me, eyes trying to ignore the awkward angle of my arm and the blood starting to slide down my shoulders. "Took a bit, but I think you're ready for it now. So fight for it."

I think somewhere in me I always knew I wanted it to be one of them, if it wasn't me.

It hurts to look up, now, even in the slightest, but I stare at Hariwin until he stops staring at Terron's body.

"You ever gonna tell us you aren't a complete dick?"

He lets out a low, bitter laugh. "Still am. Sorry."

Camilla lets out a wet, choked laugh. She tips her forehead onto mine. She really is crying now. I didn't really expect anyone to cry over me, at least not here.

"I'm sorry," I whisper quietly. It hurts a lot less now. Feels like it should be going the opposite way. Camilla shakes her head against my own, a little frantic.

"You did more than you'll ever know. From the beginning, it was always you. So thank you. For everything."

Her hand tightens around mine. Ross drops a gentle, barely there hand on my shoulder.

There's a lot I could probably say. Thank you for proving me wrong, in the end. We're not all bad. At least I don't think so. I hope it gets better, though. I really, really do.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

_Boom._

Camilla doesn't make a sound when Sheridan's eyes slip shut and the cannon echoes. She doesn't even move. I let myself rest back a bit, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. A group of seven and four days later there are only three of us left.

"Camilla."

She doesn't even look at me. I know if she did her eyes would be bloodshot and furious.

"Just go, Ross."

It stings a little. She sounds bitter and exhausted. But she's not .. wrong, per say. I want to know she's okay. And then I want to go. Camilla and I have never been anything but allies, and I think we're done now. Hariwin is a subject I don't even want to touch. He saved our asses today, but I don't want him watching my back. Still don't even know if I trust him.

Hariwin's footsteps start receeding from behind me. For a second I think he's leaving. I turn, in the slightest, one eye on Camilla and the other on him. He stops at the Cornucopia, kicking open a first aid kit and snatching a roll of medical tape out of it. He raises an eyebrow at me and rips the tape open with his teth, grimacing when he attempts to flatten his fingers to tape them together.

Terron did one hell of a number. Even dying, he was probably proud of himself.

"What're you gonna do?" I ask her quietly. When she looks up at me, finally, my description seems pretty dead on.

"Doesn't matter," she says, equally quiet. "So just go. No point in staying."

There really isn't. The longer I sit here the more it makes me want to stay. It'll end in disaster, the same way. Even if it is one of us, the rest have to die. I don't want to kill her. I've watched too many allies and friends die. I don't want her to be another one.

I reach across Sheridan's body— she's still holding it—and grab her hand. For a second I think she squeezes back, but I let go just as quickly.

I get up and make my way to the Cornucopia. Hariwin's almost done taping his hand back up and doesn't move to stop me. I start rifling through the supplies, shoving them into a rather large backpack. Several packages of food. An extra water bottle. Bandages, knives, everything I can think of. I grab another spear and shove it through one of the loops in the backpack.

I almost leave. I let myself go back into the Cornucopia for one last thing. I grab one of the lone sheathes of arrows off the wall, slinging it across my back, grabbing the matching bow, leaving that in my hand. It feels right.

By the time I come back, we're almost in a perfect triangle. Camilla's hauled herself to her feet, lowering Sheridan's body gently onto the ground. She grabs the gun out of her belt and shoves it into her own.

I don't know why I have a feeling I won't be seeing either of them again. Maybe I really wasn't cut out for the Careers, not then and not now. Leaving feels more right than joining ever did. Camilla gives me a nod and nothing else, a brief second of eye contact that's as blank as it gets. Hariwin grabs my forearm with his good hand.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says evenly. I don't know if he's talking about the bow in my hand, or me in general.

I blink at him. "You offered to punch me in the face the first day I met you."

"Offer still stands."

I shake my head. Smiling feels wrong, but the smallest one comes out anyway. "Think I'll pass."

He lets go of my arm and falls silent. I take that as my signal to leave.

My feet pause at the doorway. I allow myself one last look. Three dead allies. Maybe one of them never really was.

"Hey," I call out. "Good luck out there."

Camilla stares at me. Hariwin gives me a thumbs up.

I let the door fall shut behind me.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove — 18 years  
District One Female**

* * *

Never thought it would come down to this.

I knew all along that I'd be alone. That I'd end up alone. Amara and Estelle's District loyalty were only going to get them so far. I would've left Sheridan before I turned my back and allowed myself to kill her. I knew it would be eventually. I didn't think it'd be now.

Well. I'm not alone. Not technically.

Hariwin might as well be a stranger. He's currently got his shirt hiked up, jacket on the ground at his feet, wrapping a bandage around his torso and pressing it tight against the wound on his side.

"You enjoying the show, or?"

So he wasn't completely wrong about the not being a dick thing. Good to know. I don't bother giving him a response. Instead I find the largest backpack I'll be able to carry comfortably and start rifling through our supplies. I won't let myself turn around. Staring at her body won't do me any favors.

"What was going on there, anyway?" Hariwin asks. "That was more than allies. Hell, that was friendship. Didn't know Careers had friendships. Well, besides Daniels, but we're going to ignore him for the sake of it."

I roll my eyes, but something skips in my heart. He knows something was up. Still is. If he can recognize that, who else can?

I brush my fingers over my stomach absentmindedly. "Nothing you need to know."

He mutters something under his breath and turns away from me, only he doesn't leave.

"You know he's going after that girl. What's her name from a District I can't remember."

"Abigail. And I know."

"We should've killed him."

"I know."

I think I've collected enough knives to last me weeks. Two guns. Enough supplies to sustain me.

"Surprised you didn't shoot down the 'we' in that last bit."

I roll my eyes again. "You coming or not, dickhead?"

Hariwin stares at me impassively. "Excuse me?"

"Are you deaf as well as a dick, or are you coming with me?"

I think for the first time in his life, Hariwin Saylor's been blindsided. It's almost amusing, but I'm serious. I don't really know where the thought came from. Maybe it's knowing that no matter what we are, we're stronger together. Knowing that he's not as crazy as we thought, maybe not at all. Knowing I might go crazy myself if I go through the rest of this alone.

"You gonna stab me in the back?" He asks, still impassive as ever.

"Guess you'll find out."

He considers this, shrugs, and grabs his backpack off the ground, slipping his jacket back on. He gestures to the door.

"Ladies first."

"Fuck off."

He huffs out a laugh and slips past me, exiting quicker than I can blink. I give myself one second to look back. Silently tell Amara that I'm sorry I didn't care as much as I should have. Tell Sheridan I'm sorry I couldn't save her.

I slam the door shut behind me. It's better that way.

* * *

**15th. Terron Calvert, District Two Male.**  
**14th. Sheridan Ariss, District Four Female.**

* * *

Well. I mean, pretty much all of you said Terron was going to die, so at least that happened? I'm sorry for the rest? I guess? Also slightly early update because I said so.

Honestly, though, I am sorry for Sheridan. Fun fact of the day: Sheridan was at one point my victor. Admittedly she held the position for the least amount of time than the other two potential victors I had in my head, but she was still up there. Unfortunately I just couldn't take her there. She was a Career but she was a really great person, and I'm glad to have had her. In other news, no sorry for Terron. He was a jackass.

I'm super excited for where this is going now. We'll be going back to the rest of the children next chapter, I just felt it was wrong to focus on anything other than this for one chapter. I've put a **new poll** up on my profile, as well! Try to pick all 8 options because .. they're there for a reason. Please?

Until next time.


	24. Impending

Arena, Day Five.

* * *

**Elora Farro — 17 years  
District Nine Female**

* * *

I still can't believe three of them are dead.

When we heard the cannons yesterday, most of my bets had been on them slaughtering an alliance with a casualty, not them killing each other. There's only three of them left. When we went into this, there was almost no hope of beating all of them.

Now, there might be. It's morbidly inspiring.

Kiero had had a weird look on his face all day yesterday. I think he knew. He spent hours scuffing his feet through the mud while we walked, tapping his fingers against everything in reach. Every once in a while he'd say something, so quiet I'd have to get him to repeat it. Something like - watched them during training, none of them got along like they should've - the Two boy was always slipping, they didn't notice until it was too late - and I think he might've been right. Dead on, probably.

I trust him too much. He's leading us without really leading us, like it's effortless. I trust Spens too much. That's the only reason I let him climb out of the trench to walk a bit ahead of us. Every once in a while he'll pop back over the edge, shake his head, and go back to walking. I don't know what he thinks is going to happen if he sees someone. We're not going to run in the opposite direction. We can't.

I'm never going to be able to leave them, but I'm also never going to be able to watch them die. So where does that leave me?

"You alright?"

I've been slowing my pace. Kiero's a few steps ahead of me, glancing back over my shoulder. He slows to let me catch up. I give him a definitely not-convincing nod. He narrows his eyes at me.

"You're not talking. It's weirding me out."

"You're an ass," I tell him earnestly.

"Wonder where I get that from."

I fake shock, letting my mouth fall open. Kiero grins.

"I am not an ass."

Kiero stares at me. And keeps staring. I press my lips together and glare back. It doesn't even phase him.

"Guys?"

Both of us glance up at the same time, staring towards where Spens has stopped above us, waiting quietly.

"Sorry!" I chirp. "Kiero's being an ass."

He opens his mouth to retort and I slap my hand over it, smiling. Spens shakes his head fondly and turns away, resuming his walk.

"No, seriously though, what's up?" Kiero asks, bumping his shoulder against mine. He's gotten more comfortable with doing with, with the small gestures of affection I've forced on him and Spens since day one. It took him a bit, but I think he's getting used to it. I press my lips together. What am I supposed to tell him?

"I'm terrified," I settle on eventually. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, but continues walking. "But not for myself, really. The thought of you two dying keeps me awake at night, you know? But I'm not getting out of here without it happening. There's a part of me that doesn't care anymore. Maybe living wouldn't be worth losing both of you."

I don't expect him to respond so quickly. "Please don't say that. Don't throw away your life for ours."

"I never said that."

"I know you didn't. But you're thinking it. And don't."

"Then don't pretend you're not thinking it too. You're too damn heroic for your own good. You don't always have to be the hero. Sometimes you're allowed to be scared or terrified or angry or whatever we're going to call this. Stop fucking pretending," I spit out. It comes out before I can stop myself, and I instantly want to slap my hand over my _own_ mouth. Kiero falls into that type of silence where I know he's angry, face all closed-off, but he won't say anything. Maybe because I'm right.

I sigh. "Hey, I'm—"

I don't register Spens dropping down into the trench like he fell out of the sky, so I squawk horrifically loud when he grabs me with one arm, Kiero with the other, and drags us both back behind a pile of sandbags. I flail, but he's got his arm pretty tight around my waist. I could get free if I wanted to, but somehow I don't think I really want to.

"What?" I hiss, as quietly as possibly. He shoves Kiero behind him and me to the side, half on the ground. He peers around the edge of the bags, barely there.

"Saw something," he whispers.

"Like what?" Kiero says back, so quietly I almost don't hear him. I glance over my shoulder at him. The anger's gone. And now I see it. He's scared. Spens swallows.

"I don't know."

* * *

**Finnea Mason — 17 years**  
**District Seven Female**

* * *

My knife sails towards the target, hits it with a spectacular thud, and skitters to the ground.

I frown.

"Your form's off," Acacia comments idly, twirling one of the knives between her fingers. I frown again.

"S'okay, Mason. So you're not an expert knife thrower, big whoop."

I sigh and rub a hand over my face. The target, about 30 feet away, is nothing more than a few sandbags stacked up into something Acacia evidently considers an acceptable target. The only problem is; if I can't get a knife to stick into a sandbag, what am I really going to be able to stick it into? Apparently nothing.

"We'll find something else you're good at," Acacia continues. She grabs a few of our supplies off the ground and shoves them back into her backpack.

"Unless I'm throwing a handful of mud at someone, I don't think we're finding anything," I say quietly. There's really nothing else around us for me to use, unless I decide that a sharp pointy piece of wood or metal is something I'm going to use to kill someone. Somehow, I doubt it. I feel sort of useless. Acacia can fight. Hell, Acacia's killed. And even if it sends a sharp pang of agony through me whenever I think of Porter, it keeps reminding me that she's stronger than I am.

"Well, if you threw it hard enough," Acacia ponders, trailing off. She's fighting off a smile. I think it was meant to be a joke, but I can't find it in me to laugh. Haven't laughed since before Porter.

It still doesn't feel real. I'm not here. I haven't watched one of my friends die. I'll open my eyes and I'll be _really_ awake, and this will all have been a dream. A nightmare, really.

"Stop doing that would you," Acacia says, nearing exasperation. "None of this shit is your fault."

"What am I contributing though, really?" I ask her, raising my eyebrows. She chooses not to respond. Probably out of kindness.

"Exactly," I finish, swallowing hard.

"You're keeping me sane. Keeping me here with you. Yeah, it's not shanking somebody, but it's something. Leave the shanking to me," Acacia says earnestly. I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing the knife between Porter's ribs. The imagery isn't helping.

I need a few seconds, and I think Acacia knows it, but she's never been able to let the silence stretch on for too long. I think if it does whatever's in her head starts to get her too.

"Uh, Finn? Might wanna turn around."

I open my eyes and blink. She's staring over my shoulder. Fear leeches into my heart, only she'd be springing into action if something was really wrong. It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up with that thought.

It's a parachute. Now I'm infinitely more confused.

Acacia lunges forward when it becomes evident that I have no plan on moving. She snatches up the parachute. There's a small, silver canister dangling off the end of it. I watch as she twists the lid off, peering into the container.

"The fuck is this?" She mutters. I cross over to her side and take the container from her hand. It's a transparent liquid, but thick enough that it has some substance. It smells awful. Acacia reaches a finger towards the surface, but I grab her wrist.

"Maybe we shouldn't?" I suggest. I tilt the container. On the bottom, in bold red design, is a warning label.

"Do not ingest in any way shape or form. Lethal," Acacia reads. "Helpful. What are we supposed to do with it, then?"

"Poison," I say quietly. Her head snaps up towards me.

"Seriously?"

"Well, I don't know for sure, but it sure as hell looks like it—"

Acacia grabs my arm. She's nearly grinning.

"Do you know what this means?"

"Uh, obviously not**—"**

"We have a chance now. You don't need perfect throws to kill 'em, Finn."

I freeze, tilting the container in my grip. If it's as potent as it looks, this could kill someone. One drop and I could end someone's life. I think of the three faces in the sky last night and of the three that are still out there. The eleven that still stand in my way.

Twelve. Acacia's still here. Acacia won't be on the receiving end of it.

I think.

I hope it won't come to that.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

Being with Camilla, well.

It's something.

It's something because I can't really come up with another word for it. I watched her run full blown at Terron yesterday without an ounce of fear in her eyes, and then watched her smash apart a few minutes later. She's not unstable, though. At least I don't think so.

She put it best, though. Guess I'll find out.

She's trudging through the mud ahead of me. I keep following. I don't think she has the faintest clue about where she's going, but I'm not even gonna ask. She might be a little off mentally, but somehow I doubt her aim isn't. God forbid she turns around and puts a knife in my eye socket. That'll put a damper on things.

It feels easier now that Terron's dead. No one's trying to draw me over to the dark side, if that's what we're calling it. More like push. He wasn't really giving me a choice in the matter, or at least he wasn't planning to.

Sheridan's not here to hover over me like I'm about to explode, either, but I don't think that's worth mentioning to Camilla.

There's something up with her, besides the trauma and the shakiness in her fingers whenever she holds a knife. I just don't know what it is.

I glance up at the sky. There was four of us, now there's two, and I'm the one left from Four that really has a chance. No offence to Ross, but if our mentors could help me out, now would be nice. Or any time in the near future. Not that I really expect them to drop me a detailed letter about what the hell's up with Camilla, but some information would be preferred.

As if on cue, she glances over her shoulder at me. I raise an eyebrow back.

"What, you think I'm gonna run away?"

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"If it's gonna happen, it's gonna happen. Not much you can do about it," I point out. She turns around.

"I could put a knife in your back."

Out of reflex, my hand twitches to the axe in my belt. She glances over her shoulder, a challenge in her eyes. She almost looks pleased with herself.

"Nice," I say, deadpan. "Real nice thing to say to your ally."

She shakes her head, looking almost happy for a second. That, or that she got a reaction out of me about something. We've barely spoken in the day since we left the Cornucopia. Not that I blame her. Not really much to talk about.

"Wanna take a bet on who kills who? Because I'm gonna put five bucks on myself over you."

Camilla actually laughs, her head tipping back in the slightest bit. "Only five?"

I shrug, and she snorts.

"Well, when I kill you, you better have that five in your pocket."

Glaring at the back of her head does nothing. She can probably feel my gaze, but either doesn't care or downright ignores it. Staying with her is irritating at best. We're two strong personalities that are way too strong for each other, but the thought makes me feel strong. Like I can tear the whole arena down. We're the strongest people left in this arena, and we're working together.

Sort of. I don't know if this is considering working together, exactly, but she didn't strangle me in my sleep last night and I haven't really contemplated killing her yet, so there's that.

I watch as one of her feet slip in the mud. I get close enough to grab her, if I wanted to. I keep walking. She lands hard on her ass in the mud, grimacing and glaring spectacularly as I keep walking, further away from her.

"You're a dick!" She yells after me, re-adjusting her backpack and hauling herself to her feet.

"Yeah, I told you that yesterday!"

There's a moment of spectacular swearing on Camilla's part, and then a shower of mud and tiny rock fragments slams in-between my shoulder blades just above my backpack, splattering my jacket while the rest of it smashes apart into the air. Camilla's fist is dirty, the stuff caked under her fingernails.

I can't help but laugh. The first real laugh I can remember for as long as we've been in here.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

We've almost made it to the trees.

I don't really know why we're here. There's not enough trees in Nine to even be considered a patch of wood, and from what Abigail's told me about Ten, all she knows is huge rolling fields and more grass than she ever wanted to see in her entire life. So it might be kind of pointless, but we also saw not a single sign of footprints on our way over here, so if I have to settle for trees to get a lack of people, it works for me.

They're stark, skinny things, more gray than brown in the midday light. The wind howling through them is sending the last of the leaves scattering to the ground. Half of them look like to fall over. I put a hand on one and push experimentally. The thing tilts, creaking, and Abigail thwacks me hard in the shoulder with her backpack.

"Ow," I mutter half-heartedly, rubbing my shoulder with my hand.

"No pushing the trees over," she says sternly. "Bad idea."

It probably is, but now it's got me thinking. We both have weapons. The knife she has is more long-bladed than mine, almost like a machete but they would both do, I think.

"Why not, though?" I consider. "If we're the ones pushing 'em over, at least they're not getting pushed over on _us_."

Abigail pauses. "What, like a trap?"

I shrug. It's not the worst idea I've ever heard.

"There's no one here, though."

"Not yet. Now that we are, guarantee someone's going to follow."

She considers that and nods once, so small I almost don't recognize it. She reaches out the hand holding her machete-knife-thing and extends it to me. I take it, and give her my own. She seems surprised for a second, and then tucks it back into her belt.

I pick one of the smaller trees, situated at the edge of an even smaller clearing. The water's worse here than in the rest of the arena; it's basically swamp, clinging thick around my ankles and giving me an almost perfectly clear view of the scars, red and angry, across my face. At least I have the privilege of seeing them. The scars are worth keeping my eye.

"Stop staring at yourself and get started," Abigail mock-whispers from behind me. I swat her away with my free hand, and she takes a few steps back. It gives me enough room to swing the machete back and embed the blade in the bark of tree.

It takes several minutes, but soon I've made it as close to the middle as I dare going. The wind is doing wonders to dry the sweat from my skin, but it's also sending goosebumps across my skin. I take a step back, bracing one of my feet against the thin trunk, and push. It takes a few seconds, but soon there's a tremendous creak that sounds too loud for how small the tree is and it topples over, cutting the clearing in half. Abigail lets out a low whistle, and takes my knife out.

"Think that could squish someone?" She asks, hesitantly. She kicks at the fallen tree with the tip of her boot, head cocked sideways.

"Maybe," I consider. "If we pushed it quick enough."

We're both staring at it silence. I can't imagine someone under it. Can't image putting all of my weight behind it to willingly do it. But in the long run, it might be better than the inevitable blood on my hands. Might be easier than slitting someone's throat, if it ever comes to that.

"Well," Abigail starts. "Guess I won't make you do all the work."

A rough 10 and a half snarky comments come to mind almost immediately, but I watch her cross over to a tree adjacent from the one I just knocked over, picking her way over it. She starts hacking at it, drawing her pruny hands out of her jacket sleeves to get a better grip on the knife. We're both freezing and exhausted, but the desire to live keeps coming back to life in both of us. She's smarter than I gave her credit for. Stronger too.

"Okay, when I said I would help, I didn't say _I_ was going to do all of it."

I roll my eyes, crossing over to the tree next to hers.

We've got a long way to go before this is done. Even longer until the end of the Games.

I grip the machete tighter. Might as well get started.

* * *

**Estelle Galore — 17 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I think I'm lost.

Well, lost being the operative word here. That implies I knew where I was going in the first place. I thought about heading toward the trees, as far away and bare as they are, but every time I try to turn in their direction, I somehow end up turned back around. Like they don't want me there.

It briefly occurs to me, as I'm trying to fall asleep the night before, that maybe they want me somewhere else. Herding me.

After that, I don't fall asleep. Something's coming. I just don't know what yet.

I'm not used to looking over my shoulder every two seconds. Cassia almost had a sixth sense for knowing when to turn around and check for enemies, human or mutt. Nothing's attacked me, so I don't think I'm doing that bad of a job. Yet. Still, it'd be nice to have her here.

_No_, I remind myself. I left her. I didn't _need_ her. I can get by just fine on my own.

I won't lie. Seeing Amara's face in the sky terrified me. Seeing Terron and Sheridan's was worse. If someone can take them out, what's stopping them from coming after me? Camilla won't do it maliciously, but she won't hesitate. Ross will. Hariwin would probably snap me in two.

And if it wasn't the Careers taking each other out, then what did? What's horrible enough to cause that much damage?

I'm panicking again. It's subtle, but it's there. Dammit, I really hate being alone. This is why Queenie went with me literally everywhere. One wrong look from someone my age and I'd either fly into a rage or run in the opposite direction.

The wind keeps brushing against my ears. It's harsh up here. I slide down into the trench closest to me, grabbing a few sandbags for leverage. I still feel like I'm hearing things, though. A crack here. The thick squelch of mud just up ahead.

There's a shadow on the ridge.

I nearly yelp, slapping my hand over my mouth. The shadow disappears. It occurs to me a little too late that maybe I should move too. Instead I stand perfectly still in the center of the trench, waiting. What the hell am I waiting for? A strand of my hair tickles against my cheek. The wind's picking up even more now.

Maybe I shouldn't have said that something was coming.

Because I think I just found it.

Someone's here.

* * *

So, I'm just gonna say that I'm a little disheartened by the number of reviews I've been getting. It was a great number and was for a while and it's been dropping a lot. I endlessly appreciate everyone who has reviewed, your support means a lot. Honestly, though, even if it's just a line, it really does encourage me to write, especially when I'm getting five reviews when thirteen people have voted on the poll so far.

Anyway. I have a thing for giving you a single break chapter in between killing people. Make of that what you will. Also I really don't know why everyone was 17 in this chapter. Didn't realize until after. If anyone correctly guesses what happens in the next one, man, congratulations.

Also, please stop voting for The Holy Trinity on the poll. You're making me feel bad. You're setting yourselves up for a world of things you Do Not Want.

Until next time.


	25. Who We Become

Arena, Day Five.

* * *

**Cassia Winters — 12 years  
District Twelve Female**

* * *

I found Estelle.

I found her, and I think I did just in time.

I'm far enough away that she has no idea I'm there. In reality, I was scared that if I got too close, she'd turn on me and not regret it. That, or give me that same look that she did just before she walked away from me. I don't know if I can handle that again.

I just want to tell her I'm sorry. If she still wants to walk away after that, I'll let her. At least I'll let her go knowing I tried.

She freezes. I squint harder. There's a thick mist in the air, steadily growing. It's too ominous. It's like they want me to know something bad is happening. Is going to happen.

I freeze too. I rise up from my crouched position behind a series of crates. Estelle's still not moving, and I'm too far to know why. Hesitantly, I creep forward, slipping closer to the trench. There's a muddy ridge just before the edge of it. There are hand prints pressed into the edges of it, the mud already beginning to slip back into it's former shape.

She won't _move_. I don't know if she's hurt, but she's standing there just fine. She looks scared.

Why did she go down there in the first place? Did she see something? Hear something? Does she even know there's the possibility of me being behind her?

There's a noise behind me. I flatten myself as far down as I can go against the ridge. There's enough mud on me that I blend in well enough, as long as I don't move, or breathe, or do anything remotely human.

Someone rises up out of nowhere on the ridge. Tall. It's getting too dark to make out any other features. When did it get so dark? It had been midday only a few minutes ago. But the clouds are as black as ink, spreading across the sky, and the mist is still coming. It's getting easier for me to hide, but harder to tell what's going on.

The person drops into the trench a few feet in front of Estelle. That I see very clearly.

Estelle shrieks, a borderline scream that echoes across the ground. I wince and peek back over the ridge. It's the Six guy. A whoosh of breath leaves me. At least it's not one of the remaining Careers. But he still volunteered, and he's still got a weapon that most definitely wasn't in the Cornucopia, and Estelle's got no chance in hell if he wants her dead.

Two people appear behind her. The Six guy's allies. The girl looks more solid, less shaky, but the boy is infinitely more intimidating, no matter the shaky grip he has on his sword. I was so focused on Estelle I didn't even see them coming, have no idea where they even came from, _how did I not hear them**—**_

Estelle lets out a sob and something I can't make out over the wind. Her eyes are filled with tears. My fists clench reflexively.

I could scream. I could yell at her to come towards me. I already know there's no way she'll manage to haul herself up the trench wall and over to me before one of them grabs her and yanks her back down. But I need to do something.

I remember what I told her. I had to kill the Three girl. I didn't have a choice. And they don't have one about killing her.

I think I'm finally getting where she was coming from, and I didn't realize it until I was about to watch her die.

I stand up.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

Spens steps forward.

Estelle doesn't do anything to stop it. I don't think she has anything in her to even try. She knows the second he raises the staff and moves even the slightest bit that she's done for.

I make myself look because it feels wrong to look away. He's killing her so Elora and I don't have to. He doesn't want us to go through that.

None of us see her coming.

A shape, so small I almost think it's a mutt of some type, leaps over the edge of the trench. It's landing is nothing graceful, but it immediately rights itself in the mud and charges towards the pair of them. It's too late for me to yell anything, almost too dark to see, but the size and shape only means that Estelle Galore's ally is very much still alive and kicking and has other plans.

Her hands, small and dirty, almost get there. Her knuckles brush against the staff. She knows she won't be able to stop the momentum, not with her strength against Spens'. Her feet slip, her lunge carrying her across Estelle, in front of her. I know what's going to happen a second before everyone else does.

The staff's blade plunges straight through the Twelve girl's stomach and out her back. The tip of it is an inch from Estelle's stomach.

Time stops. Or it sure as hell feels like it does.

Elora shrieks. Spens stops dead, eyes wide in horror. The Twelve girl was so tiny that it took him almost nothing to do it.

And then Estelle starts screaming.

It's like nothing I've ever heard in my life. It's eerie and frightening and it sends chills down my spine. The Twelve girl wraps her hands around the staff where it's embedded in her stomach, looks over her shoulder at her ally, and _smiles_.

Something in Spens' eyes die.

She's dead in the next second.

Spens has no choice but to rip the weapon out of her stomach, splattering her blood across his jacket and the ground beneath him. She collapses to the ground. Estelle won't stop screaming. She drops to her knees next to her ally's body, sobbing and choking on her own breath, hands clutching uselessly against the ground. The hole in the Twelve girl's stomach seems too large for her body. This isn't real. He didn't kill her.

He drops the staff next to the two of them. It's like his knees give out, collapsing on the other side of her body. Estelle's all but clutching the body to her chest, head dipped down onto her shoulder, shaking so violently it looks like she's going to fall apart at the seams. Spens looks up at us.

I want to tell myself he did what he had to. But it was an accident. He never would have done it, not of his own choice.

"Spens," Elora chokes out. I didn't even realize I had an arm stretched in front of her, keeping her back from it. "Spens, just come over here."

We need to leave. We need to leave now, before this gets worse, and before Spens refuses to make himself get up. Before he decides he doesn't deserve it.

He braces a hand on the ground, pushing himself up. He reaches for the staff with his other hand.

Estelle barely looks up, but I see it in her eyes. And I realize now why I never have any time to yell. It's because no one in this arena comes with a warning label.

In one swift motion she drops the body and lunges across it, still screaming like a banshee. Spens was half-risen, but he's so unprepared for it that he goes right back to the ground with her wrapped around his knees. She scrambles for better purchase, and all I see are her nails digging into his throat, his knees pressing up into her ribs, and then he throws her off.

She drew blood from his neck. She's heaving and she's furious but she knows, even in this frame of mind, that she won't be able to take him on our own. She turns on us, instead. Spens is still on the ground. I tighten my grip on my sword, fingers clenching the hilt. Estelle rips a small, barely there knife out of her belt. I have my arm out again before I realize what I'm doing, pushing Elora behind me.

"Don't," she whispers, almost against my ear. "I said don't be a hero. Don't start now."

I freeze. Spens makes it to his feet.

Estelle sprints towards me. I raise the sword, the only sort of protection I have against her, just as she slams into me.

She's small, but she takes me to the ground, half on top of Elora, who instantly is trying to wriggle out from under me, frantic in her movements. My wrist bends back under her weight, forcing me to drop the sword. It's lying between us. One wrong move and it's going to slip between my ribs, and she won't even have to kill me.

Elora makes it out from under me, grabbing one of Estelle's arm and yelling nonsense. Spens grabs the back of her jacket, but she wraps herself around me like an octopus, refusing to be dragged away. She's still crying, borderline hysterical. The look in her eyes is terrifying me. She doesn't care what happens to her, not now, and she doesn't care what she has to do before someone finally kills her.

Her elbow catches me in the throat, sending my torso slamming back into the ground, wheezing for breath. My arms are shaking too bad to do anything productive. The arm I had braced against her shoulders to keep her back is pushed back to the ground. In the seconds I'm down, she whips around, knife in hand, and smashes the blunt edge of the hilt against Spens' temple. Both of his hands had been preoccupied with trying to haul her off of me. Wherever she hit, she did it on purpose. He goes down again, instantly slumping sideways onto the ground. Elora yells louder. Spens isn't unconscious, but he's close.

I think this girl trained more than she ever told anyone. And now that Spens is effectively down for the time being, it leaves me and Elora against her.

Elora's strong but she's not strong enough to drag her off. I slam my knee into her stomach, but she's so crazed that she doesn't even move. Her knife digs into my shoulder. There's blood. I can feel myself starting to panic. Finally Elora gives up yanking her off and crashes into her side, giving me a few more inches to wriggle free. I kick out again, this time connecting with her hip. She falters the slightest bit. In the split second she looks up at me, I slam my fist into her face. Something cracks in my thumb. Elora's got her legs now, and with less grip, she rips her off of me. Her elbow cracks into my mouth. Instantly, I taste blood, a few drops of it spraying out of my mouth as the blow sends my head sideways. I shove myself back and get to my feet, head spinning and jaw throbbing. Elora struggles away from her and gets up. We're all on her feet, now. I grab my sword just as she runs at me again, the knife held straight out.

I raise the sword. I can block the knife.

Spens rolls over with as much frame of mind as he has and locks his fingers around her ankle as she sprints past him. Her arm, instead of raised towards me, gets jerked to the side. And the swing of the sword in my hand, ready to crash against her arm to stop the weapon from hitting me, rips itself across her throat.

Everything goes to slow motion. I see with crystal clarity as the metal rips through her skin and all the veins in her neck. There's so much blood. There's too much. The momentum sends her crashing to the ground sideways, hands flying up to her throat like she's trying to coax the stuff back in.

She dies choking on her own blood, eyes wide and terrified, a scream rattling through her chest.

I collapse.

I killed someone. I killed her. I killed her, I killed her, _I fucking killed her_**—**

I wasn't supposed to kill her.

There are too many tears in my eyes to see properly. Someone touches my arm, my shoulder, and I jerk away, scrabbling away on the ground. My thumb burns where it catches on the ground. There's blood dripping out of my mouth, and more flies out when I choke out a sob.

This isn't happening. She's not dead. I didn't kill her, she's _fine_.

_Boom._

I can't help the scream that rips it's way out of my throat. Hands lock around my arms again, but they're bigger and stronger and I can't fight them, not anymore.

Spens' arms loop around my shoulders, wrapping around me and I bury my face in his shoulder and just keep _screaming_. Nothing else will come out. Every time a thought enters my mind to shut up, to pull myself back together, I just see the blood spilling out of her throat, her hands desperate in their attempt to keep herself alive.

Everything keeps fracturing. Every time I tell myself it's going to be okay.

Nothing's going to be okay.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

Kiero won't stop shaking.

Every time I tilt my head the slightest bit I expect to see him in pieces, scattered across the ground. I just dig my fingers in tighter against his shoulder blades, trying to keep him together. Elora promptly plasters herself against his back, the tears dripping down her cheeks landing on the back of his jacket.

I can't think through the waves of pain in my head. I don't think my head's bleeding, but it might as well be. God, everything might as well be.

I don't know how we're supposed to get up. How I'm supposed to be able to hold this all together when it feels like I shouldn't be allowed the capacity to.

I killed a twelve year old. I killed someone who was by all faults innocent, who had a home to go back to, who had their whole life to live.

When I volunteered I signed up for all kinds of things. I thought I knew the risks.

"I don't think you did," Elora whispers, barely there, and it takes me a second to realize I said the last part aloud. She tries to smile, but it wobbles too hard to even past as an attempt. She wiggles her arm free of it's entrapment between me and Kiero and grabs my hand, tangling our fingers together. She lays her head back down on his shoulder and that's the end of that.

We sit there, half-freezing and miserable, until rain begins to fall from the sky. We're soaked within seconds. It takes me being even colder to realize that there's no point in all of this is happening if we all get hypothermia and freeze to death. Even Kiero tilts his head out of my shoulder for a second, blinking the water out of his eyes.

I start to rise, dragging them both up with me. I keep one arm around Kiero, Elora's hand still gripped in mine. She tangles the other as tight as she can in the back of Kiero's jacket, stepping as close as she can get without being practically on top of him.

This is why I'm all for Kiero taking the lead, for him telling us where to go and where to put our feet and how to_ keep going_.

But they need me. Both of them do. And if I have to put that responsibility on my shoulders, I will. No matter how hard it is to walk with it being there.

I don't have a choice.

I look down the direction of a trench. It's stretching into the darkness. There's nothing else in sight. God only knows how far it goes. Kiero peels himself away from me to stare down the opposite one, Elora's eyes switching frantically between both of our gazes.

I follow Kiero's stare, and then look down directly at him. He won't look me in the eye, even though the rain's washed the blood splatters off his face. But I can see the moment his face twists into something determined, something closed off, where he compartmentalizes every emotion he'd been feeling and buries it where no one else is going to see it.

Despite everything, knowing I shouldn't, I still trust his instincts more than I trust my own.

I give himself a second to turn back. Elora's hand squeezes mine like a vice, like she knows when my eyes fall to linger on the Twelve girl's body. Kiero's staring back too, lips white and still allowing himself to be tucked into my side like he never would have before, trying not to shake.

I've been afraid to lose them since the second I saw Astrid go after them in the bloodbath, since the second I saw anyone's blade pointed in their direction and the fear in their eyes. And despite it all, I think I just lost a part of both of them.

Maybe I lost a part of myself too.

* * *

**13th. Cassia Winters, District Twelve Female.**  
**12th. Estelle Galore, District One Female.**

* * *

Is this when I start receiving threats on my life?

I guess I'm kind of sorry, but this had to happen eventually, and I had fun writing it. Sort of. It still hurt in ways I didn't expect, but here we are. Also, I feel really bad for whining about the review count now, but getting the amount of reviews I did last chapter was awesome, so. Keep it up, maybe? 100k words and 200 reviews rolled into one. I'm not going to be around much this weekend, so have your early update. You're still waiting until next Sunday for the next one, deal with it.

In other news, the poll results are up, and I'm going to keep repeating that they are not funny. What did I say. Stop voting for them. You're only hurting yourselves. But they amuse me, in the very least. We'll see how accurate your Final 8 is to mine.

#prayfortheholytrinity2k15

Until next time.


	26. What We Were

Arena, Day Six.

* * *

**Acacia Wilson — 16 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

I mentally will my hands to not shake.

I don't know what part my brain is playing in this operation, but my hands have been steady so far, so I'm hoping it's enough. I'm sitting cross-legged on the ground in the mud, on a dryer patch of land Finnea and I had picked out earlier. It's a dead end, but there's enough crates and sand bags stacked behind me that it's an easy scramble up and out of the trench if something corners us. Tried and proven.

Finnea reaches into her backpack and pulls out the little canister of what she thinks is poison. Of what I'm choosing to believe it's poison. Sure, it's says 'DANGEROUS' in big, bolded letters on the bottom of it, but the Capitol's done a hell of a lot worse things than lie about stuff.

"If you drip that shit on me and I die, I'm coming back to haunt you."

Finn looks over her shoulder and gives me a small smile, huffing as she turns back around to remove the lid.

I consider that an accomplishment. She been quiet since Porter, quieter than before. I didn't think that was possible until now.

Maybe it's because we have a chance, now, because she finally feels like she's accomplishing something. It's good for her.

I feel calmer now too. It should be going the opposite way, I think. After Porter, my hands shook for almost two days straight, shoved into my pockets so Finn or the Capitol or District Seven didn't see it. They're steady, now. Steadier than they were before. I'm unused to the feeling of it.

Finnea comes back and crouches in front of me, the silver canister clutched tightly in her hand.

"I was serious about haunting you, by the way," I point out. "We better not fuck this up."

"Nah, we won't," she says quietly.

It's almost easy to believe her. Nothing's happened to us for three days. Really, nothing's come after us this whole time. We've been lucky. But now I'm just waiting for it. And waiting for it's getting too hard.

We need to move. I _want_ to move.

"After this we're moving out," I decide. Finn looks up at me for a split second before returning her gaze to the canister.

"Why?" She asks quietly, but not decidedly against it. I mark that as a success.

"There are still three Careers left. They're not going to die with us sitting here."

She pauses, almost freezing, and carefully puts the canister on the ground out of reach of either of us. Her eyes are troubled.

"You saying what I think you're saying?"

Porter would want me to. _Us_ to. He would want us to win. To fight. To go to war. He was more made for it than either of us. I look up at Finnea.

"They've hunted us for too many years. We're going to tear the three of them down."

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove — 18 years  
District One Female**

* * *

"Honestly, do you ever shut up?"

"I think I've proven quite effectively that the answer's no."

"Well, you barely talked for the first few days that we were in here, and now it feels like your mission is to talk me to death."

Hariwin grins. I roll my eyes.

"Maybe I _am_ trying to talk you to death. You never know."

"Great," I mutter under my breath. Even though I'm walking ahead of him, I can practically see the grin on his face. It's infuriating. This whole situation is infuriating. We haven't seen anybody since we left the bunker two days ago. I'm beginning to think that this place is bigger than we initially expected, or maybe it's just easier to get lost.

There are nine other tributes left. Hariwin and I have only killed two people. So who's out there doing it?

"Think it's the Six guy?" I ask idly. Hariwin's a bit closer to my back, now, and I can hear the noise of frustration he makes before he's able to push it back down. I turn around, glancing over my shoulder at him, and he's scowling. So it's evidently still a sore spot.

"Don't worry. You can have him. I'm not touching that shit."

"Gee, thanks," Hariwin quips. "Don't think so, though. That's what, four people since the bloodbath? There's no way. He volunteered, but he didn't have it in him. Like Daniels, only he didn't talk as much."

I sigh, hanging my head whilst trying not to lean back and hit him.

"Anyone I should leave for you?" Hariwin asks casually. I'm surprised he's even asking. He might have lost some of his initial murder-drive, but it's still there. I'm just wondering how long before we do find someone and it comes back out.

"Nah, I'm good. Go for it," I tell him. Really, there's no one I need to kill. Want to kill. I didn't want to kill the Five girl, necessarily, but she's still dead. Everyone who's still standing in my way is the exact same. A casualty of war. Something that needed to happen.

A spasm runs through my stomach the second I think it, and I freeze abruptly, stopping dead in my tracks. Hariwin nearly walks into my back.

"Jesus, woman, warn a guy, would you?" He snaps, stepping around me. It takes a few seconds for him walking to slow to a halt, turning back to look at me, one eyebrow raised.

"You gonna make it, or should I just keep going?"

I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second. I'm doing this for myself. For what could be my future child. So why does it feel so wrong? To survive and live my life all I have to do is ruin God knows how many others. Take away children and siblings and people who don't deserve it. I knew that was it, when I volunteered. I didn't have a problem with it then. Everything changed when Sheridan took my hand the night of the interviews and told me to fight for it.

_Fight for it_, I remind myself. Not just for yourself. For your child. For Sheridan. For everyone that's died.

For everyone I'm going to kill.

* * *

**Abigail Locey — 17 years  
District Ten Female**

* * *

I think I've decided that I don't like this forest.

Of course, I think I decided that the moment I laid eyes on it. But Quill's plan made sense, and we're okay so far, and that's all that matters. Everyone who's died so far has died in the trenches or in the bunkers and as haunting at this place looks, maybe it's safe.

"Abigail, don't move."

Or not.

I freeze from my sitting position on the ground, leaning against one of the few trees we left alone. Quill had been crouched a few feet in front of me, shoving together something that half-resembles a fire, but now he's staring over my shoulder, machete in one hand and the other slowly pulling the gun out of his belt. Every one of my instincts is telling me to go for my own knife, but the look in Quill's eyes is saying I shouldn't bother moving, at least not for the time being.

He raises the gun. I squeeze my eyes shut, even though I know he's not aiming it at me.

_Bang._

I want to yelp, but I shove it back down. There's a high-pitched squeal from behind me, and then silence. I peek my eyes open. Quill's more relaxed now. I lean over sideways, peeking back over my shoulder. It's another one of the mutts, the same kind that almost took out his eye, except it looks three times the size of the other one. There's a bullet hole in the middle of it's face, and I grimace. It really didn't need to be any uglier than it already was, fur all caked with mud and limbs misshapen. I turn back to Quill, sighing.

"Well, now we're even, I guess— holy shit."

Quill blinks at me. My heart is in my throat.

"Okay, you don't move now."

Something in his face drops.

There's three of them behind him. I swear they keep getting bigger. They're at the edge of the little clearing we've stationed ourselves in, but we're already outnumbered. Their teeth have to be longer than my fingers.

"If you must know," Quill manages. "There's two more behind you."

Without thinking, I turn as quickly as possible, putting my back to Quill. He gets the message and does the same. I keep going until the backs of my shoulders knock against his. Our backpacks are both across the clearing. There's nothing between us and them but fifteen, maybe twenty feet of space.

"On a scale of 1-10, how screwed are we."

"11."

"How optimistic," I mutter. He might be right, though. My knife is nothing compared to the size of these things, and we know from experience how fast they move. Even if Quill could manage to get a good enough shot off to kill one of them, the other two would be on him in the seconds, and the noise would no doubt send the two staring me down into a frenzy.

"There's another in the trees to our right," Quill notices. It's lurking further back, jaws open and saliva dripping onto the ground where it walks.

Three for each of us, and that's hoping they don't have anymore friends.

"Do we have a plan?" Quill asks.

"Don't die," I fire back quickly, and I can feel the sigh he lets out against my back. It's true, though. I'm not losing him too. Not after Dess. Not after Falco. He's the closest thing I have to a friend left.

My heartbeat's ticking away the seconds. One. I tighten my grip. Two. Quill tenses against my back.

The one on our right springs into action.

Quill swivels his arm and shoots. It skims across the top of the thing's back. The other five spring into action the second he moves.

I'm beginning to think Quill's 11 was an optimistic one.

I dive out of the way from one as it leaps towards me, hitting the ground with a thump. I get an extra second to kick out as one rounds on me, snapping my foot into it's leg. Despite their size, they're surprisingly fragile. There's a sharp crack where my foot connects and it howls in pain. The other one replaces it, and then the one from further in the woods, lingering behind it, menacing and slavering.

I've got one knife. Which means I have to let them get close enough to kill. The thought isn't a reassuring one.

I lunge to my feet and start running.

The two uninjured ones give chase. I don't even have a second to make sure that Quill's still alive. He could be dying and I wouldn't even know it.

My lunge takes me to the injured one, it's back leg dangling. It bares it's teeth at me despite it. Before it can get a chance to maneuver even with it's injury, I rip my knife through it's throat.

There's blood coating my hand and most of my upper arm. It's retched, steaming against the cool air. And in the split second I stop to kill this one, one of the others slams into my back. I just barely manage to turn in mid air, striking out an arm in an attempt to get it anywhere other than on top of me that barely budges it at all. When I land, it feels like every ounce of my breath is driven straight out of my body, and there are teeth snapping an inch from my face.

"Abigail!"

I try to look towards Quill, but the teeth in my face are the more important part. Something strikes it in the side of the head. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to stop in sheer confusion.

It's the gun.

It bounces off and lands on the ground a foot away from me. I stretch out my arm, fingers clasping around the barrel, and swing it into it's head again. Whatever's going in their head isn't very promising, because it rolls off me, limbs flailing, onto the ground. Quill's only got one of his own left. I raise the gun and fire. A bullet buries itself in the other one's head as it leaps towards me mid-air, sending it crashing to the ground. I get onto my knees, burying the knife in the remaining one's back as it lies dazed a few feet away. It lets out a quiet whimper and goes still.

I turn in time to see Quill lop the head clean off of the last one, seeing it roll into the leaves. There's blood everywhere, and I think I can feel some, thick and cloying, on the back of my head from where I fell.

Quill looks at me in exasperation. "Will these things ever leave me alone."

It feels wrong to laugh, but one almost escapes. He steps over the corpse of one and offers me a hand, grimacing at the blood coating my own. He starts hauling me up.

Something leaps out of the darkening shadows of the trees. A scream just barely erupts from my throat, but it's not in time. It crashes into Quill's back, his hand ripped out of mine. His head cracks against the ground. There's a part of me screaming that he's already dead, neck snapped, but he's still moving, trying to get away from it, but his machete went flying and I can't find the knife, can't find the gun, _we're done for_**—**

An arrow buries itself in the mutt's neck.

I freeze, on my hands and knees on the ground, searching for the knife. Quill's eyes, squeezed shut against the attack, snap open.

"What the fuck?" He says in disbelief.

I shove the mutt off of him with one hand and wrap my other arm around him, hauling him up into a sitting position. He goes stiff as a board. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think that this is his instinctual reaction to getting hugged. His chin still tips forward the slightest bit, resting on my shoulder, and one of his hands comes up to rest on the back of my shoulder, his other arm bracing the two of us up.

"What the fuck," he mutters again, but this time I can tell he's looking over my shoulder again. I can almost see his eyes, confused and wide, the faintest bit of terror lingering in the back of them.

The arrow. In the middle of everything, I forgot about the arrow.

I turn.

It's Ross.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax — 12 years  
District Eleven Male**

* * *

I go back to the Cornucopia.

Again.

I know, I know. Remember what happened last time, and all that shit. But now I know for a fact that half of them are dead and the other half's out roaming, and they don't have any plans on coming back anytime soon.

Believe me, I spend a few extra hours outside the bunker making sure no one's in there. I really don't need a repeat of last time.

Eventually I creep in, propping the door open with my shoulder and shoving my head in the gap. All of the doors are shut but one, letting a wide rectangle of light in from the opposite side of the room. The bodies are gone. Don't quite know how the Capitol managed to get them, what with a roof over their heads, but there's nothing left but the bloodstains on the ground and the weapons laying perfectly where their hands would have been, had their corpses still been there.

It's eerie. It's never been this silent in here before. I shove the door I entered through completely open, making sure it doesn't swing shut again. The light's helping.

It still feels like I shouldn't be here, like this place has been claimed and it's now off-limits territory. Maybe their ghosts are still here. I wince a little bit when I see the blood splatters along the crates that are no doubt from the knife in Amara's forehead.

That wasn't my fault. None of it was, not even close. What was I supposed to do, latch myself onto Terron's back like an over-aggressive koala and hope for the best? It's a miracle there weren't more casualties. I didn't plan on being one.

All of the bigger packs are gone, no doubt taken by the remaining three, but I probably wouldn't have been able to carry most of them anyway. I find a smaller one and begin shoving as much food as I can into it, shiny silver packages of it. I leave one in my hand and tear it open with my teeth. These adventures are almost always started because I'm so damn hungry. It's one thing back in Eleven, when you know there's no food and you have to put up with it, but it's another thing when there's a whole Cornucopia full of it and it's right in front of you.

If only the feeling of eyes staring at me from every direction would go away.

Out of habit, I glance around. There's nothing but the shadows in the corner of the room and the sound of the wind whistling through the doors.

Maybe the whole Games thing is just making me more paranoid. Maybe it's because I've never had someone watching my back. Amara almost counted. Probably would have if she hadn't died right in front of me.

The only ounce of satisfaction I get is that Terron is probably rotting in whatever corner of hell he crawled out of, and he didn't manage to drag me down with him.

Despite the stillness of the air and the general on edge feeling that's settled into my bones, it's safer here than it is anywhere else. When the mutts came, four of them went outside and they shut the doors. We were safe in here.

It's ironic, I know. Twelve year old from District Eleven single-handedly takes the Cornucopia from approximately no one.

But there's a safety here, and for the first time that I can remember, I'm not soaked to the bone or freezing or starving to death in a trench.

I grab another packet of food and a bottle of water, tucking my bag under the same arm. With my free hand I begin to scrabble up the back of the Cornucopia, wincing when my wet shoes slide against the metal. Eventually I crest the top, sliding forward until I'm seated on the edge with my legs dangling before the mouth. It feels like something's going to slither out of it and grab my legs, drag me down and not let me come back up, but nothing does.

I'm being irrational. I know I am.

But if I'm being irrational, I know I'm alive, and that has to be good enough.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

In my head, all the ways I found her were infinitely better than this.

I wasn't watching her fight for her life with an ally I didn't know existed, wasn't watching the panicked look in her eyes when she realized he was going to die, watching her turn and look me in the eye like she didn't even know me.

Maybe the only Ross Abbie can know is the one that killed Falco.

I can't even remember what District the guy is from, with so many people and names blurring together. I've never even spoken to him. He looks confused, though, and angry, but the same type of thing is already leeching into Abbie's eyes, like I'm damned for even trying to come here.

"Should I push a tree on him?" The guy mutters, a little too loud to be considering whispering.

To say I have no idea what's going on is an underestimation.

There's something here telling me not to move, though, not to cross that line. Not yet.

I sling the bow back over my shoulder and drop my arm. Both of them continue staring at me from their position on the ground, unmoving.

In my head, it wasn't this awkward. I didn't expect her to be happy, necessarily, but, well. It's still wrong.

"Ross?" Is what she finally decides on, hesitant and unsure, like she doesn't know if it's really me. I look down at the ground, scuffing my feet through the leaves. Looking her in the eyes is too hard. It's like she's looking for something that used to be there, something that went away a long time ago.

"Yeah," I settle on quietly. I only look up when she stumbles to her feet. Her ally is looking between the two of us like he just stumbled across a very interesting sideshow, looking more curious than nervous. Abbie steps carefully around the bodies of one of the mutts, swiping her knife off the ground. Something like fear spikes into my heart, just for a second. If she wants to hurt me, she'll be able to. He won't be able to fight back against her. Maybe before, if he hadn't known her, if he hadn't bothered to. But not now.

She stops a foot in front of me. I make myself look her in the eye.

And then she slaps me across the face.

It takes me more than a second to register that she just_ hit me_, but my head's very clearly snapped to the side, and out of the corner of my one eye I can very clearly see her allies jaw-dropped expression. He looks proud. That, or impressed.

It would be funny if it wasn't due to the fact that she just slapped me.

When I lift my head up, my cheek is stinging, but it's nothing worse than what's already happened. Her hand is more red than what my face feels like, but what's worse are the angry, burning tears in her eyes. Seeing that hurts more than anything Terron ever did.

"Okay, I deserved that," is all I can think of to say. Abbie looks like she wants to hit me again. Probably multiple times. I think she might have, if her ally hadn't pushed himself to his feet behind her. She looks back at him for a second, and when she turns back towards me, she's staring firmly at the ground.

"I know sorry's never gonna be enough for you," I say quickly. "But there's nothing else for me to say. _I'm sorry._ More sorry than I think I've ever been. But I can't take it back._ I killed him._ Believe me, it took long enough for me to even be able to say it outloud. You can hate me, do whatever you want, but you're not getting rid of me. Not now."

Her head snaps up at the last bit. Now she just looks angry.

"What are you going to do?" She snaps. "If this is some shit mission to prove that you're still you with emotions and actual feelings, don't bother. I don't need protecting, watching over, whatever you're going to call it. You proved that when you killed him."

Her ally is looking very interested in a tree off to his left. It might be the wind, but I think he's whistling.

"I know you don't," I say quietly. "But I knew I'd hate myself for as long as I'm still alive if I didn't try."

She's silent for a long time. Her lips are pressed so hard together they're white, and she absentmindedly scrapes at a flake of dried blood wedged tight underneath one of her fingernails. She looks worse than I last saw her, but more resolved. Stronger.

"Abbie," I plead. "Please."

If she turns me away, I'll go, but I won't know what else to do. I won't go back to Hariwin and Camilla. I won't have anyone.

Abbie sighs shakily and runs a hand over her face. She turns back to her ally. He stares back at her impassively. He doesn't _look_ like he's going to hurt the guy who just saved his life, but I also have no idea who he is.

On a last whim I slip the bow off my shoulder and hold it out to her. Her eyes trail down from my face to the hand offering it.

"It's yours," I explain. "I don't want it. I took it for you. Either way, it's yours."

Slowly, carefully, she wraps one of her hands around the arc. I drop it from my hand. She looks at the thing like it's not real, turning it over in her hands. I take the sheath of arrows off my back, offering them to her once she hooks the bow on her shoulder. This time she takes them quicker.

"Thank you," she says eventually, barely a whisper. I nod, even though she's back to not looking me in the eyes.

"Okay," Abbie says. "Okay. But. But I'm not—" she struggles to find the words. "I'm not going through that again. I can't."

I offer her a tight smile. I rest my hand on her arm, and count it as a victory when she doesn't shove me away. She still kind of looks like she wants to. I look over her shoulder at her ally, who is currently leaning face-first into a tree, hands pressed tight over his face. I can't exactly blame him. I feel like I'm living in a soap opera. Abbie follows my gaze, letting out a tight, but fond, smile. She steps carefully away from my arm and strides over to him. I can't hear what they're saying, but I can tell that they care about each other, that they work well together.

I watch the two of them gather up their stuff, trying not to feel like something important just changed. It did, really, but not in the way I should be excited about. Maybe I'm changing things. Making them better.

For Falco. For Astrid, Amara and Sheridan. For my friends. For my Mom.

Abbie crosses back over to me with him right behind her. On a whim, I hold my hand out to him, waiting to see what'll happen.

"I'm Ross," I say casually. "District Four. In case it wasn't already made obvious."

He stares back at my hand, looks quickly to my face, and then stares at Abbie. She tries not to smile.

"Seriously, what the fuck is going on?" He asks, for the third time in ten minutes, even though he knows what's going on and Abbie might have forced him to agree to it.

"This is Quill," Abbie chimes in. "He has a way with words."

He scowls and shrugs away from the hand she puts on his shoulder, stepping around both of us to begin making a path through the woods. I stare after him, and then look down at Abbie. She meets my eyes for a moment before stepping around me herself, eyes downcast, jogging for a second to catch up to him. I'm left standing in the middle of the woods, their forms retreating from me, watching as she shoves him in the shoulder, her smile already easier.

Well, maybe things aren't better yet.

But I'm working on it.

* * *

So. I've had the same victor for god only knows how many months and while writing this chapter I started imagining it as someone else. _Help. _And I know when I updated last Friday I said you guys were waiting until Sunday for this one, but I have no self-control.

Anyway, I've written a lot of weird alliances but Quill/Abbie/Ross might take the cake. They're funny, though. Even more fun to write. Quill really doesn't know what's going on or how he ended up here, pray for him.

In other news, I know exactly how many chapters of this story are left, because I actually took the time to plan it all out. I know exactly when we're getting the victor. I know exactly how many POV's everyone has left until I murder them. I know what chapter I'll be able to mark this story as complete, and that's really exciting. If I don't screw it up. And well, I've said it to a few people, but a sequel is definitely looking more promising. Still won't happen for a few months, but it's never too early to start thinking, if you really want to.

Until next time.


	27. Blood Red Sky

Arena, Day Seven.

* * *

**Elora Farro — 17 years  
District Nine Female**

* * *

When I wake up in the morning, Kiero's gone.

My first instinct is complete and utter panic, which I thought I'd gotten better at quelling. We hadn't been able to find any sort of real shelter last night, so we'd spent several minutes quite literally digging a shallow hole in the side of the trench that we could shove ourselves into in an attempt to sleep. My legs are still damp, so I can't imagine how well Spens and Kiero fared, only Spens is still asleep next to me and Kiero's _gone_, so it's a little hard to focus on.

I can't keep my thoughts straight. I tell myself to get it together, but the thought's gone almost as soon as I think it. I shove myself out of the hole, swearing when my head brushes against the top, mud smearing through my hair. If I wasn't already a mess, I definitely am now.

I stumble out into the middle of the trench, putting a hand above my eyes to shield them from the sun. The sun? Since when was the sun out? It feels as if I haven't seen it in days.

"Hey."

I slap my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. I whip around, feet sliding in the mud. Kiero is sitting on the upper edge of the trench, feet dangling above our little sleeping hole. I lean down, finding the nearest small pebble I can, and hurl it at him. It bounces off his chest. He looks down at his lap, frowning at where it landed.

"You scared the shit out of me!" I whisper-yell at him. He throws the pebble back down into the trench. I find a small stack of crates that he must have used to climb up and scramble up them myself until I can crawl over to sit next to him, leaning into his shoulder.

I still don't know if he's okay. Okay might not be the right word for it. He isn't okay. I know that. But he's surviving and he's still walking and it's good enough for me.

"Sorry," he says quietly, and it's rewarding when he bumps my shoulder back, lighter, but still there.

I squint up at the sun again. It's weird, seeing it. There are still patches of clouds scattered across the sky, but the sun is so blazing and white it's almost like it never went away.

"I woke up and saw it," Kiero says suddenly. "And then I couldn't sleep. Got me wondering. It's been what, seven days? Why now? Why is this the first time it's felt like it's been out? Why does it feel like the first, only, and last time, right here and now."

To be honest, I really don't know where he's going with it. I just lean my hands back in the slowly drying mud, tilting my face up into the light. It feels good.

"What if this is the last time we see it?"

I crack an eye open, staring at him. It must hurt his eyes, but he's looking directly up at the sky like he doesn't care. Something settles deep in my chest when he says it. Acceptance, maybe. If this is the last time I'm gonna see it, well. It could have been worse. My last days could have been so, so much worse, and I know it. I don't deserve the two of them, don't deserve the love I have for both of them, but someone thought I was worth of having it, at least for the time being.

Death has never scared me. Leaving them might, if it comes to that.

"If you need to talk to me, you can, you know," I tell him. "I know I don't get it. Don't know if I ever will, but you can. Just don't forget that."

"I know. S'just easier not to," he explains. "Thanks, though."

I smile at him and get a barely there one in return, but it's the first one I think he's let the world see in the past two days, and that alone feels like victory. That I think I get, though. The second he starts talking about it, says what he did out-loud, is the second it becomes real. It's why him and Spens don't want to look at me, don't want to involve me in it even though I won't allow it. And they're falling apart, slowly and surely, but I think the moment they finally allow it will be the moment they become better for it. Kiero's already stronger. Spens already was.

I'm stronger for the both of them. Because I have to be. Because it's who I am.

If they fall apart, I need to be here to pick them back up, to stitch them back together and tell them to keep going. So screw the sun. If this is our last moment of peace before everything goes to shit, then it's been a long time coming.

Spens comes stumbling out of our little hole almost exactly how I did, shaking his hair and looking quickly down each end of the trench. I wave frantically with my free arm until he turns around, eyes landing on the two of us, sighing in what has to be relief. I smile sunnily and pat the space next to me, watching as he hauls himself up the crates before plopping himself down next to me. I loop my arm through his and reclaim my position leaning on Kiero's shoulder.

"Never change," Spens says softly.

It feels like we're not here, like none of us are in danger. It'd be easier to believe if there wasn't blood dried impossibly deep under Spens' fingernails, if I didn't turn sometimes and see Kiero in an entirely different world. If I didn't spend so long trying to be the glue that keeps them together.

Red's bleeding into the sky at the edges, so impossibly bright it doesn't seem real either.

I don't think it is, really.

It's a warning.

* * *

**Finnea Mason — 17 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

I really do hope they're okay.

Lately my mind has been wandering back to Ainsley and Rosalind. Rosalind's still too young to know what's going on, she won't be watching this, won't watch my probable death. But Ainsley will. My parents can't protect her from everything. She might only be ten but she knows how to take care of herself better than she should.

She'll know, either way, if I don't come home. My parents will get a box with my body in it. They can only hide that for so long.

Maybe it's morbid. But it's reality.

Acacia and I scraped every ounce of the poison-stuff we got out of the little canister and coated our weapons. It still wasn't enough. It still wasn't enough, but it made a significant dent. Most of the knives she got are covered in it, and so are the few I have. There's only a few, like the long, machete-like weapon that she has and some of the larger knives that didn't get a coating of it.

We hope to have the upper hand on whoever we come across. But that's provided they don't stumble on us the same time we stumble on them. If they come over the ridge, or drop down into the trench, they'll be more prepared than we are.

I think that's why we're moving quickly. Both of us are hoping it won't come to that. Neither of us want to be on the receiving end of a knife, poisoned or not.

"Hey, you see that, Finn?"

I pause, nearly running into Acacia's back. She's pointing to the muddy ground, little tracks of water intersecting where I think I'm supposed to be looking.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" I ask quietly. She sighs, tilting my head with her free hand. The one that's not holding the knife. I never thought I'd appreciate something more.

Finally, a few feet in front of us, I make them out. Footprints. It's hard to look at, but I think there are at least two pairs of feet in the mud. Maybe three, but it's too hard to guess with everything intersecting. So that means unless it's the Six's guys alliance, it has to be at least one of the Careers. Possibly all three. I swallow.

"We can't take all three of them."

"You don't know that. And you don't know that it's all three of them."

Acacia's stubbornness is motivating, sometimes, but other times it's almost infuriating. We can't take three of them. In truth we probably can't take two of them, especially if the infinitely more intimidating Four guy is one of them. He could snap us both in two or throw us halfway across the arena before we even thought to blink.

"I don't know why you think we can take them," I say shakily. "You might think you can, but you're not invincible. Neither of us are."

"And neither are they!" Acacia snaps. "Someone has to kill them. Outer-District kids win all the time, it's not impossible for them to die either."

I run both hands through my hair. This whole situation has been building up for so long I want to scream, or cry, or just let the world know in some way how wrong this is. We lost our families, the moment we left, we lost Porter after Acacia put a knife through his ribs. We've lost too much and now she wants me to lose the only piece of sanity I might be clinging to.

"Finn," Acacia says softly. "I know you don't want to. I don't want to."

"But you are," I interject. There are tears in my eyes, no matter how hard I try to blink them back.

"You killed Porter. You know what it feels like," I continue. "And I don't know if I can do that."

I picture Rosalind ten years from now, finally having the sense and the maturity to sit down in front of the television and watch the elder sister she never really knew die. What if she watches me kill someone, one day? Then it'll be like she never really knew me. Like I was never the sister she knew, even at six years old.

Ainsley will watch every second of it. And who knows whether she'll understand or not.

I blink back the rest of my tears, frantically, just to see Acacia take a step towards me. For a complete, irrational moment, I'm terrified. She has a knife. She doesn't even have to kill me, because the poison will do it for her.

She wraps her arms around me and I freeze.

Acacia Wilson is even smaller than I am, looks like she could blow away in the wind if it was strong enough. Both of us do. But somehow we're here, and we're alive, and we're together. Friends. I never thought I'd have friends in here. She steps back just as quickly, ducking her head and not even giving me a chance to return it.

"I don't want to," she manages. "But I want to go home. Or see you go home. And that matters more."

I don't know if I'll ever be able to understand, or maybe that understanding comes with getting someone else's blood on your hands. But she looks certain, solid. Like she was ready for this all along. And I think maybe I'd have given up by now if she wasn't here.

Acacia looks back down at the footsteps, and then follows her gaze to where they disappear around the nearest corner. She doesn't move. She waits until I follow the trail her eyes make, until I look down at her and give the smallest, shakiest nod.

She puts a hand on my shoulder, giving me strength to start again, and we keep walking.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

Tyge would say it's a bad omen.

Tyge also looked like he was going to disown me at the Goodbyes, and he's fifteen. And my brother, so I'm pretty sure it's impossible.

I don't know why now of all times I'm thinking about him. It would be worth it to see the look on his face when he realizes I'm not a complete monster, that I'm not totally off my rocker. Yet. There's still time for that, still a hell of a lot of people in my way. Camilla included. At this point, I doubt anyone will take her out unless it's a team effort. Which means it has to be me.

I think it says something that I don't really want to kill her. Sure, sometimes, the slightest bit of urge is there, but it's mostly just to get it over with. It's not because I want to throttle her, like I did with Terron. Better sooner than later type of thing. But I know that she's useful, and so the hesitation is still there.

That, and it would revert me right back to complete asshole status. For all our talk about her stabbing me in the back, guarantee me actually going forward with it would be crossing the line in at least one person's eyes.

I could do it right now. She'd never know; would probably be dead almost instantly.. I've had my axe in my hand for a few minutes, after my shoulder blades started aching under it's weight. I could raise my arm, bury the thing dead center in her back, and that'd be that.

There's still something stopping me, and it's getting annoying. Maybe it's because I know there's something up with her and it's going to itch under my skin until I figure it out. I've asked her what has to be a dozen times, and her glares are only getting more frequent. Pretty soon she will slit my throat, and she probably won't even be sorry about it.

"There's a hole right in front of you."

I slide to a halt, blinking. There's nothing but flat mud in front of me.

"Are you blind?" I ask. I kick at the ground. It seems solid.

"Just wanted to see if you were still alive in there or if you'd finally discovered you'd had a brain."

I sigh, my shoulders drooping. She chuckles, but doesn't turn back around.

"Seriously? What's stuck up your ass?"

"Nothing, if you must know. But something's up yours and you won't tell me. It's hard to focus on anything else."

Camilla gives me that silent, searching look. The same one she gives me every time I bring it up. I start walking, my shoulder brushing against hers as I slip past her, yanking my backpack further up my shoulders. I don't know why I expected a response this time, when I haven't gotten any yet.

"I know I'm an idiot," I continue, calling back to her. "But I'm not fucking blind, unlike you."

I continue walking, hopping down a ridge, nearly dropping my own axe on my foot. After a few moments, I hear slippery footsteps behind me. So she's coming after me. I think this is the first time she's followed me anywhere, instead of the other way around. She must be walking a bit faster, because before I know it she's only a few feet from my back.

"Sheridan was the only person I really trusted in here," she starts. "And I watched her die. It's hard to trust anyone after that."

"Yeah, well I never trusted anyone. Fun times."

"You trusted Astrid."

I fall silent, tightening my free hand on the strap of my back. Camilla chooses not to say anything else. Maybe she knows it's better not to.

"All I'm saying is you trusted her. And you didn't even get to watch her die. And I think that might hurt worse, because you didn't get a damn second to stop it."

It stings. It always has. My family looks at me like I'm a stranger. Camilla won't tell me anything. I woke up to Astrid's dead body. I'm never good enough, not for anything.

The world's a fucked up place, but I've known that for a long time. It's why I belong here.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

The day has been two very different things.

It was all golden-red sky, the wind soft. It was almost like Nine, for a minute, if you ignored the mess around your feet. But it was .. nice. For a few minutes. Now it's like we've stepped into hell itself, if hell is dark and gloomy and all-around miserable. It can't be too far off.

The reaping was hell, too, but there's really no point in dwelling on it now.

The clouds have been rolling in since about mid-day. I can't help continuously casting my eyes to the sky like it's going to change. But the cloud's have gotten darker and more spread out and thunder's rolling out in the distance like the Gamemakers have nothing better to do.

They probably don't. No one's died in almost two days. They're probably getting restless. Our fight yesterday wasn't enough to stave off the audience, probably never would be. And if nothing else has happened, then it almost certainly means everyone in here's screwed for the time being.

I don't know if Ross being with us gives us a lower or higher chance of being screwed. On one hand, if something comes at us, there's the perk of him being able to help out. On the other hand, we're an alliance of three in an arena with eleven people left in it. Elora's still out there, and so are her boys. So either we just made ourselves the bigger targets, or the Gamemakers are going to get bored and choose one of us just for the hell of it.

I don't know if it's my pessimism talking, or if it's just because of the streak I'm on, but I've got a damn good feeling it's going to be us.

Maybe it's the scars talking. Probably.

"You deep in thought over there?"

I blink at Abigail. She shoves her hands in her pockets and smiles. "You look like a mess."

"Yeah, thanks, I hadn't noticed," I reply instantly. "Same to you."

"At least I don't look like I got cornered by rabid animals in a back-alley."

I pause. I really can't even by angry about that, not anymore. "Okay, that's fair."

Orange and yellow flickers in the corner of my eye, brighter than anything else in this damn arena. Fire. Looks like Ross is more useful than I ever wanted to give him credit for. Abigail and I had tried numerous times to get a fire started, before him, and it either flat out hadn't worked or the wind and rain had worked purposefully against us, resigning us to shivering our way through the night.

"You sure about him?" I ask her under my breath, when she starts making her way back to him. I know I'm not sure about him, but that's because I don't know him. Not like she does. I know something went on there, something bad happened, but I know as much about that as she does about Arlo, which equals approximately nothing. It's not really something that came up in casual conversation.

Abigail shrugs, hands still in her pockets. "Don't really have a choice now."

I don't mention that I think we could take him, if it came to that. Ross obviously won't fight her, and he saved my life before he even knew my name. He's less Career than the others were. I'd bet that the other two aren't making friends with the outer-District kids. If there had been any cannons, today, I'd have put it on them.

Abigail drops herself down across the fire from Ross. I lower myself down about a foot away from her. I can't remember the last time I felt anything resembling warmth. At this point I'd resolved myself to pruny fingers and mud in places I didn't know existed.

Ross smiles at both of us when we sit down. It's unnerving. I can't tell if he's just trying to make up for whatever shit he did, or if he just genuinely smiles that much, which is an even weirder thought.

I feel like I'm the mediator here. That, or a third wheel, but I'm really hoping it doesn't come to that.

Third-wheeling in the Hunger Games. What has my life come to, at this point.

I don't notice when Abigail falls asleep. All I know is that I don't look at her for a few minutes and the next time I do, she's stretched out on her side, out cold. Can't say I blame her. It's nice, having the reassurance that you're not going to freeze to death in your sleep. Only problem is, now Ross is staring at me.

"You can ask, you know," he says suddenly. I raise my eyebrows.

"I'm sure you're wondering what the hell I did to get her to hate me," he explains. He doesn't look troubled by it.

"Well, I know it must have been spectacularly shitty, because she doesn't seem the type to hate easy," I tell him. I think it's the most I've said to him since yesterday. Even he looks a little surprised.

He swallows hard, like he's still resigning himself to saying it out-loud.

"Her District partner, Falco, I uh—" he struggles. "I killed him. She wasn't there when it happened. But she came back for him just after it did. I think there was a part of her that trusted me to be different than everyone else, back in the Capitol. and I proved her wrong."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you kill him?"

Ross pauses, fingers drumming a nonsense pattern across his knees.

"Didn't have a choice."

I almost snort. Something must come across my face, because he stares at me evenly. "What?"

"Didn't have a fucking choice," I mutter under my breath. "You had a choice. Hell, all you've had is choices. The day you started training. Reaping Day. Every goddamn day in between those. You think I want to be here? You think she does? Don't blame everyone else in the world because you made some terrible ass decisions. At least you got to make them."

He's staring at me, unblinking. I don't know if he's angry, or upset, or if he's finally admitted, somewhere deep down, that it's the truth. That, or he's just shocked that I'm capable of speaking that much when I haven't bothered so far.

With a sigh, I maneuver until I'm laying on my back, my backpack the only thing between my head and the ground. I know firsthand how impossible to sleep it is when you feel like you're drowning in here.

"No point in killing yourself over decisions you already made," I say, quieter. "Start making better ones."

I can just see him out of the corner of my eye. He leans his head back against the trench wall, eyes squeezed shut. He opens them a second later, trying to meet my eyes.

"Thanks."

I wasn't under the impression that I had helped him in any way. I'm one to talk, though. I didn't get to Arlo in time because I was terrified out of my mind. I let Elora send me off on my own. I let everything come crashing down around me before I was even aware it was happening.

I send Ross a half-hearted thumbs up and turn away from him. The ground's digging uncomfortably into my side, but it's better than him staring at me all night.

* * *

So, if I hypothetically said I'm moving the pace of this story from a normal one to I'm turning into an axe murderer with how quickly I'm going to start killing them, how would everyone feel about that? I mean, it's not like you really get a choice, because I'm doing it, but this is just your warning. And because I would say this is our final pivotal downhill moment, I'm just going to say thanks again to everyone that graced me with a tribute. If you leave after yours is dead, I can't blame you, but I'd appreciate if you didn't.

I was going to ask who you guys can see as the victor at this point, but on second thought I might want to wait a few chapters. Go ahead if you want.

This chapter was alternatively titled 'Quill Grove has HAD ENOUGH'. Or, 'Everyone Gets Super Sentimental'. I mean I'm kidding. But it's still true.

Until next time.


	28. Upper Hand

**Arena, Day Eight.**

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

The vaguely nice day we had yesterday is completely gone.

I say vaguely because we really didn't do anything, but we're also all still alive, so that's a plus.

The next morning isn't too bad, if the wind didn't feel like it was going to rip my scalp off, but at least I'm faring better than Elora, who has maneuvered her hair into at least five different braids in an attempt to keep it in one place. So far, it hasn't been successful. I think she's a few seconds away from getting Kiero to try and see if he has any luck.

Which is why he's sitting cross-legged in front of me, hand held out while I try to tape his thumb into something he can actually use. As far as I can tell, it's broken, and it's gonna be that way for a while. The wound on his shoulder was deep, but small. I remember running a needle and thread through it, trying to stop my ice-cold hands from shaking once we had found something resembling shelter. Elora kept glancing at him, like she was waiting for a reaction, and he hadn't even flinched, not once.

My head still throbs if I move too fast, but it's been getting better. That, or I'm just slipping.

"Sorry," Kiero mumbles suddenly, twisting a little bit. "Sitting on a rock."

I huff out a laugh around the piece of gauze dangling out of my mouth. Elora, standing on a crate to peer over the top of the trench, peers back down at him.

"Suck it up. Doesn't your thumb hurt more than the rock?"

Kiero pauses. "Not really. It's been pretty numb for a while now."

I hope it's because of the cold and not because I've managed to screw all over all the feeling he had in it, but he doesn't seem to be in a lot of pain over it. It occurred to me, afterward, after I had unscrambled my brain and stopped thinking about it, that I can teach them all the weaponry skills in the world, but maybe I should've taught him to throw a punch first.

Elora jumps down, landing with a thick splat in the mud. A few drops leap into the air and drop on Kiero's coat, who doesn't even bother to scowl at her anymore.

"How's it going, Doc?" She asks me, peering down at my handiwork.

"Not too bad, I think. It hasn't fallen off yet," I point out. Kiero looks up at me in alarm. Elora desperately tries to fight off the laugh that rises in her throat, her eyes crinkling at the edges. She grabs the arm I'm not holding onto and rests her chin on his shoulder, looking on at my progress. She's been doing that more lately, grabbing onto him, or me when I'm quiet for too long. Making sure we're still with her. Showing us that no matter what we done she thinks we still deserve her.

Kiero does, but I'm not sure if I do. I don't remember why I volunteered anymore. Don't know if my parents are dead or alive, but knowing they'd still be horrified either way. It's harder to keep track of who I am nowadays. I'm not the same guy who volunteered. I saved someone's life that day only to take two more. And in the grand scheme of things, we're not even close to being done.

I put the last piece of tape in place, sealing it over the top of Kiero's thumb. He pulls his hand back to inspect it, eyebrows raised.

"Looks good to me," Elora says cheerily, squeezing my hand. It takes everything in me to smile back at her.

"How's you head doing?" Elora questions, watching Kiero begin to shove the first-aid kit back together, sealing in behind the front zipper of his backpack.

I shrug. "Fine as it can be. She was stronger than she looked."

I said it just loud enough that Kiero definitely heard me, but he doesn't flinch. I think he's stopped. That, or he pushes it back every time it threatens to make an appearance. It's worrying. I saw his eyes blur over entirely with tears after he killed her but I haven't seen him cry for a damn second.

It makes me wonder what has to happen for him to finally lose it, even for a few minutes. When the same thing will happen to me.

"I got you," Elora says, startling me out of my thoughts. "Stop losing to your own head. You do it too much."

She worries about Kiero more openly than me, but sometimes after he falls asleep she'll lean into me for just a second more, grab my hand and squeeze it tight enough that she could cut off my circulation. And I need it. It's a reminder that I'm still alive.

I talked to Kiero the night after, waiting until she'd fallen asleep between us in that little dug out hole. And I don't think I've ever rambled that much, at least not in front of him, but he'd just stared silently at me the whole time and let it happen. Let me get out whatever I needed to. And it was a lot.

I grab Elora's hand, the first time I've ever initiated it. She looks up at me in surprise, but squeezes back just as quick before I let my hand drop back down. I grab the strap of Kiero's backpack, helping him wiggle his arm through it without catching his thumb on something, which he's only done a rough half a dozen times in the past day and a half.

I wait until Elora hops back up onto the crate with her own belongings before hoisting her up onto the ground above. It's a stretch, and she's pretty small, but she steps into my joined hands, blurting profanities, until she hauls herself up on top, her front smeared with mud.

"You next," I tell Kiero. "I'm taller."

"Not by much," he blurts out instantly. Elora snorts from above us.

"At least a solid four inches. Get your ass up here."

Kiero sighs, almost managing to get up on top of the trench with Elora yanking on his arm from above. Would have, if he hadn't looked back down at me.

"Please help me before she rips my arm out of it's socket."

I hear muffled swearing and a light smack, followed by Kiero rubbing his forehead with one hand. I shove his legs up the last bit, allowing him to scramble up beside her. I haul myself up after them, Elora looking on in delight when Kiero struggles to yank me up the last bit. He scowls at her after he finally manages to, brushing his hands off.

"Helpful," Kiero mutters. He glances around. There's no one for miles, at least no one we can see. I turn in one last circle just to make sure. Nothing.

For a little while, it's just us. And I'm fine with that.

I'll get them as far as I can. And if I die doing it, well.

It's not looking as bad as I once thought.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove — 18 years  
District One Female**

* * *

I wake up to screaming.

Or rather, just one. But it's still loud and it's still a lot closer than I expected. It ends in me bolting upright, my heart pounding in my chest at the thought of it. Someone's getting attacked, and by the sounds of it, they're not faring too well.

Hariwin's standing on the ground above the trench, looking off into the distance. I rise to my feet, brushing my hands off on the fabric of my coat. He looks down at me.

"Another one about twenty seconds before. Good of you to wake up."

I glare at him and clamber up until I'm standing next to him. I can't see anything, and it's evident that he can't either. It's definitely coming from this direction, though.

"Mutts?" I ask.

"Could be," he considers. "Don't think so, but could be."

Which means someone's going to die out there. Hariwin leaps back down into the trench, somehow not immediately falling over, and begins collecting his stuff.

"What're you doing?" I call down to him. He doesn't even spare me a glance.

"We're not cowards. We need to go."

'"It's not our fight."

"Sorry to disappoint you, princess, but I'm about to make it ours. It's been too damn long. And if you wanna stay here, be my fucking guest. But I'm going."

"I don't know why you didn't expect this. Why you don't want this. If it has to do with whatever the hell's wrong with you, either tell me so I can fucking understand a little bit better or just give up. Because there's no point to us wandering around like idiots," he huffs.

I watch as he collects everything that he can think of, shoving it in his pack. He fastens the gun tighter into his belt, grabs his axe and an extra sword we brought with us, and swings himself back up one-handed. He doesn't even bother looking back, but he does wave over his shoulder, already jogging away towards the noise.

There's a part of me that wants to go after him.

His figure it already getting smaller. If I don't move soon, he's gone. And then I'm alone.

Something lands in the trench behind me. It's so feather-light that I don't even panic, because I already know what it is. It's a parachute.

I scramble back down into the trench, looking over my shoulder like Hariwin's going to reappear at any second. It's nothing massively important, though. It's nothing but a small piece of paper wrapped around the ends of the cord. I rip it out and unroll it.

_It's always better when they know. Everybody else already does.  
\- R._

It takes me a second_. Everybody else already does_. Royal can't mean in here. It's impossible. But if she doesn't mean in here—

They put a tracker in me the second I got on the hovercraft. One with all of my vitals, everything they need to know to make sure I'm still alive. And if they have the stats on me…

That means they've known everything since the beginning.

Not just the Gamemakers. The entire Capitol. Every District. The second they found out, they would have put it on a country-wide broadcast. It's a scandal. It's something the Capitolities would eat up. It's fucking _perfect_ to them.

Suddenly it's very hard to breathe.

I've been trying for so long to shove it back down, so no one would know. I had Sheridan. That was enough. She was the rock I needed. Now what am I, to them? District One's got to be in even bigger hysterics than they already were. Royal probably hates me. And if everyone knows, that means that Perseus was probably one of the first. Knows I could have volunteered to die without knowing I had his fucking kid inside me.

This whole situation just turns into more and more of a shitshow the longer I'm in here. Which means I need to get out. Preferably as fast as possible.

Which means I need to go after Hariwin. The thought's a worrying one, but I remember the rest of Royal's note. _It's always better when they know._ Which means she wants me to tell him. If everybody else in the outside world already knows, then me blurting it out won't mean anything to anyone but him.

I shove the parachute and the note in the bottom of my backpack, followed by the rest of my supplies. It seems now that I'm in a hurry everything chooses to be difficult, including my own thoughts. Eventually I wrangle everything into a bundle that I fit into my backpack, slinging it over one shoulder while simultaneously taking stock of the knives I have lined in my belt and the inside of my jacket. It's enough, as long as I don't waste them, to get me to the end of this.

I pull myself up to higher ground. Hariwin's gone. If I'm going to tell him, that means I have to stop him before he gets himself killed taking on an entire alliance. God knows he probably already has.

I sigh and start running, following his footprints in the mud.

* * *

**Acacia Wilson ****— 16 years  
District Seven Female**

* * *

We found someone. Multiple someones.

It's still not what I wanted. It's one of the Careers, but he's got two others with him. Two others who are very much not Careers.

I have to remind myself that they're collateral damage. That when it comes to it, they'll fight just as hard to kill me. Everyone in here will. It's what we have to do to keep ourselves alive. And if I have to go through them to get to one of the Careers, then that's what has to happens. It's a fact at this point.

There's still three of them, though, and two of us. The look in Finnea's eyes is very clearly showing how much she's worried about it.

I don't want her to get hurt because of me. I definitely don't want her death to be my fault. But we need to make a move.

I barely talked to anyone in training. But I remembered all the scores because of it. It's my best way to judge who's really the enemy here, who the toughest one is going to be. The Four guy got a nine. Everyone spoke volumes about how nice and genuine he was, but someone still took the time to show him a million different ways to kill someone. And then there's a 7, and a 6. All scores higher than Finnea's, but only one that's higher than me.

Numbers don't mean everything. There's no telling how accurate the scores really are. Which means that just because we're outnumbered doesn't mean we're down for the count.

We've been following them since early morning; since they packed up camp and kept on walking. The Nine guy keeps looking behind them, but he hasn't set eyes on us once. I can't blame him for being paranoid, though. He's not far off.

Finnea is right, though, in a sense. We won't be able to take all three of them at once. Which means one of them has to go first.

She presses down on my shoulder, putting a finger over her lips. I get the message. I'm supposed to stay here. But then what?

"Just trust me," she whispers. Her hands are shaking, though. "I'll get Ross a little ways away. And then don't miss."

Ross. Huh. Not surprised that she knows his name when I don't. Her hand slips off my shoulder and she starts inching her way to the next segment of trench that they'll be turning into. I watch as she drops down into it, and then disappears. I creep as close as I dare. They haven't turned the corner yet. But they'll be there in seconds. And she's just standing there, no weapon in hand.

Ross turns the corner first, stopping dead. The blonde Ten girl walks into his back. I assume the Nine guy is still behind them, hidden from my sight.

"Finnea, right?" Ross asks hesitantly. I watch her nod, dropping her eyes. Her being the quiet, unassuming one is working for us. He never spoke to her. He has no idea who she is. He's still holding the Ten girl back a bit. I still can't see the other one. It strikes me as odd, for a brief second. The angle's awkward, but I should be able to at least see part of him.

Something cool, gunmetal cool, presses itself against the back of my head. I freeze.

Found him.

"You're not as quiet as you think you are," he says, and he sounds irrationally calm. My heart is pounding. He's still not pulling the trigger.

"Then why didn't you tell your allies that?" I ask under my breath. I try to sound just as calm.

"Hard to get the jump on someone when they already know you're there. Figured it was a safe bet."

He's wrong, though. Because he still doesn't know everything.

I let the knife slip out my sleeve, ever so careful. The movement is barely there, definitely not noticeable, and he's still not pulling the trigger. Finnea's still talking to the other two below us. I take a deep breath. I wanted this. As soon as I feel the smooth, sleek knife against my hand, I whip around. He must sense it a second before I do, slamming himself back. The knife misses his chest by an inch, whistling through the air where he had been standing. But he's not who I want. He's still on the ground. I turn back around, raising my arm. I can't miss. One throw and a Career's dead. One throw and I'm a step closer.

The Nine guy crashes into my back just as it's about to leave my hand. Instead of the perfectly planned arc I had imagined in my hand, it goes flying through the air, landing way too short, jumping across the mud before it goes over the edge of the trench.

And his weight takes us both over it too.

He's a solid six, seven inches taller than me and a hell of a lot heavier, so of course he lands half on top of me. I don't think he choose to. Every ounce of breath I had been building up gets slammed out of me when I hit the ground, his weight pressing down on my chest. I can barely breathe. I think one of my ribs might've cracked. Okay, so maybe he did mean to.

He pushes himself off of me. His two allies are both tense, half in-shock from us falling out of the damn sky. I turn my head, feeling the mud seep into my hair. Finnea's staring at me in horror.

Not only did I miss, but I think I just fucked up. Big time.

I whirl as quickly as I can.

Half of the Nine guy's face is coated in mud, but the other half I can see very clearly. It's all half-healed scars, scabs around the edges pulling at his face. So I do the only logical thing I can think of. I punch him in the face.

He clearly wasn't expecting it, and he definitely wasn't expecting the rip of my nails across the flesh of his cheek. Instantly there's fresh blood dripping down his face and he yells in pain, recoiling as best as he can. And I would have done it again if hands hadn't tangled themselves in the back of my jacket, nearly hauling me clear off the ground. I get dropped just as quickly, rolling onto my back. Ross is pointing a gun at me, the girl still behind him.

So that's another gun I wasn't aware they had.

It kind of feels like my chest is caving in. He's not a cold-blooded killer. None of them are. But we're outnumbered and Finnea still hasn't _done_ anything, and I can't even find it in me to blame her.

This is my fault. I know that. And I don't know if I can get either of us out.

I turn my head and look back at her. She looks terrified. She's got a knife in her hand that wasn't there before. Her eyes are filled with tears but she nods at me.

And then she pitches forward violently, mouth opening in a silent scream that gets choked off by the blood that bubbles out of her mouth, dripping down her chin.

It's then that I see the other Four guy, at the other end of the trench behind her. And then I see the axe buried between her shoulder blades.

And I don't feel _anything_.

Finnea drops to the ground, landing hard on her knees before she slumps sideways to the ground, the blade still buried firmly in her back. And she dies slower than I ever wanted to see. The blood in her mouth won't let her breathe. I know she tries to look at me. And it's that moment that burns itself on the back of my eyelids, feeling like someone just set every part of me on fire the second I see her eyes glaze over.

"Hariwin—" Ross starts, and he's confused and horrified and the other two look vaguely like they're going to pass out.

And I still can't make myself feel anything, until I realize none of them are looking at me.

I look down at my hand. It's lying limp on the ground, right next to the handle of the machete on my belt. Carefully, almost numb, I wrap my fingers around it. And then I look up at them.

Moving feels robotic. But it's all I have left.

* * *

**Abigail Locey ****— 17 years  
District Ten Female**

* * *

I don't see her move.

None of us do.

I'm too busy staring at the body of the other Seven girl, and the only connection Ross still has to District Four is still standing at the other end of the trench, his fingers tightening around empty air like he's already disconnected from the world without a weapon in his hand.

I don't see her move.

All I see is the arc of the machete after she stands up, and blood from where Ross' fingers had been, and his gun flying through the air.

Where his fingers had been. Where his pinky and ring finger had been. Now there's only blood. Blood and bone and not something I thought I'd ever hoped to see.

And as much as you can train someone to come here, train them to fight and kill and win, I'm almost certain there's no simulation to teach them how to prepare for losing two of their fingers. And Ross is no exception.

I think he almost passes out. Quill spots both appendages on the ground not two feet from him and almost follows him.

And then the smaller knife, the shinier, barely there one in the Seven girl's hand lances across my shoulder, and it occurs to me that I should probably _move_.

It burns, like someone's poured acid into it, deep and jagged across my collarbone. I follow the momentum of her swing and all but throw myself to the ground to avoid the machete coming at my head. Half the arrows in the quiver on my back go flying, scattering on the ground around me. She doesn't stop, though. She swings her arm again and brings it towards my legs. I think she's hurting too much to realize how far off she is. And then Ross grabs her again.

I don't know how he does it. All I see is his left arm practically wrap around her, fingers clenching in her shirt. But she's fighting hard and his whole other arm's covered in blood and she's the perfect example of why you should never count anyone out. Ross looks so pained and so defeated that I don't know if he'll be able to do it. Ever since I said I wouldn't go through it again, he's tried to promise me that I wouldn't.

I asked him not to put me through that, which means I asked him not to kill anyone else. To not win. And it's not fair.

I kick out my leg straight into her shin, sending her down into a heap at my feet. Now I'm angry. Angry and confused and sad and I just want this to all be over. I'm done playing this game. Running and hiding and constantly pretending that_ I'm not scared_.

Ross grabs her as she tries to scramble away, and I cover the last foot of distance between us on the ground. I give myself the last second of happy I think I'll have in here, looking at Ross over her head, and at Quill behind them both, who can't get involved without making it worse. We all survived this.

I see the knife in Ross' hand the second my fingers, stretching for something, _anything,_ close around the shaft of the arrow. And we do it together because I don't think either of us would be able to handle it on our own. Not anymore.

The arrow in my hand goes up and through her neck the same second Ross' knife comes plunging through the back and straight out the front of it. There's blood splattered all over me, pouring out of her neck.

Her struggles die out with her. Her body goes limp above mine, Ross' hand still tangled in the back of her jacket. With the last bit of energy he has he pushes her off of me and to the side. I think she's dead before he drops her to the ground.

"Don't move!"

I want to cry when I hear it, because for a moment I almost think we're in more trouble, and I don't know how much more I can survive. But it's only Hariwin, at the far end of the trench, only he has his gun pointed at Quill's head, who had been in the process of getting up and slipping his way towards us.

"Don't!" Ross yells at him, teeth gritted. "Fucking don't. Hariwin. Please."

He lowers the gun, but looks hesitant to do so. And then the One girl appears behind him, eyes wide and her breath coming a bit too frantic. Quill gets up, hands held out carefully, and backs his way towards us.

Ross is leaning against the trench wall, clutching his ruined hand to his chest. Half of his jacket is wrapped around it. He looks like he's in agony, head bowed, trembling. His arm's shaking so bad I don't even think he's aware of it at this point. Quill tries to get close, only for Ross to shake his head, almost shoving him away.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he grits out. He's not fine. The whole world could see it.

Quill backs up towards me, glancing at the wound tracing it's way over my collarbone. It's still burning like all hell, but the bleeding's already slowed.

"What the fuck do we do?" He asks, and I can tell he's trying to screw his head back on straight. I think I lost mine with him, and the only thing from keeping my sanity intact is ignoring what I just did. What me and Ross did together.

I look towards the two Careers standing at the other end of the trench. They're not making any move to get closer to us.

"I don't know," I whisper, and I hate the way my voice shakes when I force it out.

Against everything the three of us kept our lives. But how much did we just lose?

* * *

**11th. Finnea Mason, District Seven Female.**  
**10th. Acacia Wilson, District Seven Female.**

* * *

*almost makes a completely inappropriate finger joke instead of focusing on anything else I just did*

I don't really know where to start with this. There were versions of this story where Finn and Acacia died earlier, and there were versions where they went a hell of a lot further. Eventually they kind of ended up here without me really knowing how. They were both really strong girls in very, very different ways, but they came together in a way I really appreciated and worked together to get somewhere, even if they failed in the end. Don't worry about them, though. Porter's got his girls back.

I am sorry, though. I'm sorry for everyone I kill. It has to happen. :/

To clarify, both Abbie and Ross are getting credited for killing Acacia, so it's going under both their names. I wanted them to do it together because I am first and foremost corny as all hell, but we can also reason that Ferrox is a lazy bastard and didn't want to spend the time figuring out which stab would have killed her first. It may not be the last time something like this happens, so just for future reference.

Anyway, RIP Ross' two fingers. C'mon, you knew the joke was coming.

Until next time.


	29. Lies of Omission

Arena, Day Nine.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

I'm still in the mindset that I never really woke up from my sleep two nights ago.

We survived. I still don't know how. I watched Abigail and Ross kill someone, and then watched two other Careers walk away and let us live, even after one of them pointed a gun at me.

I barely slept last night. Every sound set my nerves on edge, had my heart racing. I still don't have any blood on my hands, at least not directly, but it sure as hell feels like it. I had to stop Acacia. If I hadn't, Ross would probably be dead. Abigail might have snapped. And I didn't have to put a bullet in her head, because my allies stabbed her to death first.

I need air. But I also really have no desire to go outside, and I'm thinking my allies don't either.

Ross had a fever, until Abigail dug around in his pack and shoved some sort of pills down his throat while he was half-conscious, and now he's fine. He's still curled into a ball, out cold in the opposite corner from me, head on his backpack and hand tucked against his chest. There's so many bandages wrapped around it he could probably use it as a club. I did that. Abigail's hands were shaking so bad I didn't trust her to do it. The second I felt my fingers brush against bone I almost threw the bandages in the air and ran away.

But he saved my life, and now I saved his, so we're even.

Abigail's sitting a few feet from him, knees drawn up to her chest, head leaning back against the wall. Even though they're technically across the room they're still only five feet from me at most. The bunker we holed ourselves in is nothing impressive, not even close, but it's dry and it's dark and I'm still in shell-shock over the fact that I'm still breathing.

Abigail tilts her head off the wall, cracking an eye open to stare at me. It takes me a second to realize I'm rapping my knuckles against the floor, soft and unaware. I lean back, feeling my shoulder blades dig into the numerous bolts set into the wall, rubbing both hands over my face before settling them on each side of my face, fingers curled into my hair. It feels like I have no right to go insane, not after what everyone else has done in comparison to me, but I think I still am.

"Sorry," I say softly, and Abigail stretches her legs out, clambers to her feet, and drops herself down at my side, crossing her legs back together. She winces, settling back against the wall.

"Shoulder hurt?"

She nods, offering me a tight smile. There's blood, dark and crusted, all over the front of her neck, soaked and dried into the front of her shirt and jacket. It's a gruesome sight.

"Want me to look?"

She shakes her head, this time. My eyebrows knit together.

I shove myself off the wall, turning until I'm sitting in front of her. Despite her shaking her head, she doesn't stop me when I tug the shoulder of her jacket down, trying to be gentle.

"_Christ_, what the hell is that?"

There are black lines webbing out from the wound cutting across her collarbone, just under the skin. Even the edge of the wound is black. We didn't have enough bandages, not after I got to Ross' hand, and she said she didn't need them. I'm beginning to think she was wrong. As I watch, I swear I see one of the lines extend themselves the slightest, stretching towards her neck. A few of them have already wound themselves over the top of her shoulder, another few disappearing into the collar of her shirt. She swallows, avoiding my eyes.

"Noticed it earlier. You were still asleep. Don't know what it is," she finishes quietly. She tries to crane her neck to see it herself and winces again.

"But you feel fine?"

Abigail pauses. She shakes her head again.

"I thought I did. Thought maybe it was just the shock, you know? But I swear I'm seeing things. And my hands won't stop shaking, and it just keeps burning the exact same since the second she cut me—"

She breaks off when Ross shifts in his sleep, but he stills a second later. She lets out a shaky sigh.

"There's gotta be something in that backpack, he took half the Cornucopia with him—"

"I checked. You were asleep, remember? There's nothing that's gonna help it. This isn't an infection."

Which means it's something else. I remember the flash of machete before Ross nearly got his hand chopped off. And then a smaller knife when she cut Abigail. And Ross is fine. There's no way it's a coincidence.

"You need to tell him," I say calmly, even though my heart is pounding again. She shakes her head frantically.

"Doesn't he have enough to deal with? He doesn't need this."

"Well he's gonna find out pretty fucking quick if you snap. That, or you drop dead in front of him."

Abigail freezes, like she hadn't considered the prospect of death from something like this. That, or she'd been denying it until we started talking about it. I can't find any fault in her for that. Everyone feels immortal until death's grabbing them around the neck and yanking them back, lurking under their ribs and waiting for their chests to collapse. But Arlo wasn't. Falco wasn't.

Neither of us are.

"I don't know what to do," she stammers, tipping her face into her hands. "I don't want to die. I don't want to hurt either of you."

"You won't," I say quickly, looking her in the eye. She finally looks up, afraid and shaky. And I don't really know how I mean it. Before yesterday I would say she wasn't capable of hurting someone, and then I saw her shove an arrow into someone's neck, utterly unafraid of the consequences, so Ross wouldn't have to manage the burden alone. So he wouldn't hate himself even more than he already does.

But I don't know what's happening. This is evil. Before yesterday, I didn't know if true evil even existed. I guess it doesn't care if you believe in it's existence or not. Something's happening to her and we might not be able to stop it.

If she comes after either of us, it won't really be her. It'll be something else entirely. And I'll stop her from doing it.

Because if it isn't her, if it is something else entirely, then killing her shouldn't be as hard as I keep imagining it to be.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax ****— 12 years  
District Eleven Male**

* * *

I've barely moved in the past two days.

All I've done is leave the bunker for a few minutes to look around, or stare at the sky while it got progressively darker, clouds opening up like they were coming down to eat me. They probably could.

I went back inside after I realized I was thinking about the clouds eating me. Turns out being alone this long in here does wonders to your head.

Turns out sleeping on top of the Cornucopia also doesn't do wonders for your health. I've almost had three heart attacks after I nearly tipped off the edge. I don't think I'd die from this angle unless I was extremely unfortunate, but I'd probably break something, and there goes all hope I have of constantly evading my competition while they kill each other.

I'm the youngest one left in here. The closest are the one Seven girl and the Eight boy. Four years older.

It's not a reassuring thought, but none of them have been lately.

I nearly tip off the Cornucopia for the fourth time in the past hour, blinking frantically and star-fishing myself across the metal surface, clinging to it until I can get a leg back up. I look over the edge, eyes wide. Definitely would break something.

There's something at the door.

I freeze in my star-fished position, staring towards the entrance-way. I'd only left one door open, in case I'd needed to get out. Now it's looking like I made a mistake. I've seen a few of the mutts, lurking outside the past few days, but that's the closest they'd gotten and they hadn't bugged me, so I'd left them alone. Now it looks like one of them's getting curious.

Or do I need to move to save my own skin? Has the audience finally gotten tired of me rolling around and complaining bitterly for the past two days?

If they're wanting me to get up and move, then maybe it's finally happening. Maybe they're speeding things up and they need tiny little me as their last puzzle piece, out there fighting for it.

I sigh and sit up as slowly as possible. It doesn't move, but it does run it's tongue over it's teeth, and the thought of dying as today's meal doesn't sound too pleasant at the moment. Probably won't ever sound pleasant, but right now especially. I very carefully rise into a crouch, grabbing the backpack I had been using as a pillow, and begin slip-sliding down the back of the Cornucopia. I make it halfway down before I catch myself on the edge, not bothering to make it the whole way down, and leap off. I land in a crouch, pressing myself back against it. I peek around the edge.

The mutt's still there. It hasn't moved, but it's eyes look much more alive now. Or maybe I'm just imagining it. I wave experimentally at it. It still doesn't do anything.

"I'm just gonna go out this door over here and you're gonna stay over there."

Great. Now I'm talking to it.

"Alright?"

It doesn't respond. I don't know why there was a part of my brain that expected it to. I slowly begin backing towards the door, sighing in relief when my back finally hits it. I reach over my shoulder with one hand and grab the knife I've left embedded in the door specifically for this reason. I've got them hidden everywhere.

Pushing the door open behind me, I keep one eye on the mutt. When the tiniest crack is open, I slip out of it. I'm almost entirely out, half of my eye remaining on the inside so I can try to keep an eye on it for as long as possible, when it leaps. I yelp, slam the door shut, and start running. I hear the tremendous thud as it slams against the other side of the door.

I don't hear anything giving chase, but I'm not taking any chances. I dart down the nearest trench, nearly landing on my face when I round the last corner. And the last thing I do see before I leave the first trench behind is a mutt standing at the entrance to it. _Why_.

The first stack of crates I find I leap on top of, scrabbling frantically until my fingers lock around higher ground. I haul myself up, landing straight on my face in the mud, but nothing grabs my ankles and there's no teeth digging into my leg, so that's a plus. I look back down.

The mutt's standing there, silent and watching, looking up at me from the trench. I swallow.

"Yeah, fuck you too," I manage. I stick my tongue out at it for good measure. It doesn't respond.

The Gamemakers are laughing right now, I can tell. I'm a joke, and they're loving it.

How insane have I gotten?

I take one last look at the mutt and then turn around. Nothing for miles. No bunker to go back to.

Great.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove** **— 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

"I don't think it's meant to open."

"Then why would it be here?"

Elora shrugs, looking down thoughtfully. We found a hatch in the ground, half-hidden in the mud. Spens has been tugging at it for a few seconds, hands wrapped around the rusted metal, but nothing's happening. He braces himself a little bit more and there's a horrendous creak, metal sliding against metal.

"Almost got it, I think," he mutters.

"How do we know it's not supposed to stay shut for a reason?" I offer. Spens looks up at me and tugs again. The thing comes flying open and he rears back, landing hard. Elora snorts.

"Graceful," she comments. She leans closer to the hole, looking down it thoughtfully.

"Well, there's a ladder. So who's going down first?"

None of us respond, or pipe up to offer ourselves. I'm half-tempted to shove Elora down it for trying to make us pick. Finally, I sigh.

"Fine, I'll do it."

Elora punches a hand in the air, looking pleased that she wasn't forced to. Spens, eyes worried, passes me a flashlight.

"Yell frantically if you get attacked by something? I don't know."

"Was planning on doing that anyway," I point out, and he nods. He grabs my arm while I lower myself into the hole, steadying my feet on the rungs of the ladder. They're soaking wet, and I've only got one hand to keep myself up with. I point the flashlight down. I think I can see the bottom, unless my eyes are playing tricks on me. I look back up again. Elora waves at me, smiling cheekily.

I scowl and start making my way down the ladder. It's painfully slow or not at all, I soon find out. Everything's damp and slippery and one wrong foot placement and I'm going down and probably breaking my neck. It takes less time than I expected, though, to hit the bottom. I hop off the ladder, landing in the thickest mud I think we've managed to find yet. It's almost all water, at this point, and comes up almost to mid-calf. I point the flashlight around.

In short, it's nothing. Or at least it's looking like nothing. It's a small, underground cavern, big enough that I can wander a few feet in any random direction before I hit the wall. It's pitch black.

"Kiero?" Elora calls. I look back up, but I doubt they can see me without a light. I point my flashlight towards the far side of the cavern. There's a tunnel.

Eyes narrowed I sludge my way over to the tunnel entrance. It stretches away farther than my flashlight can reach, but I can see a few other tunnels branching off form it, almost hidden. I take a few careful steps inside. The top is just barely taller than me. I sweep the light across it, narrowing my eyes.

"Kiero!"

Spens this time, and it's louder. It takes me a second to realize I didn't answer the first time.

"Yeah, just give me a second!"

I was right. There is something on the wall, maybe 30 feet down from me. There's water dripping somewhere close to me, echoing in a puddle. I should've made one of them come down with me. I feel like something's going to detach itself from the wall and creep up on me in the darkness.

It looks like a paper, half-hidden by the mud wall. Carefully, I run my free hand across it, trying to clear some of the mud off. It's faded, and rumpled, no doubt from how much water's been cascading down it for who knows how long, but I know now. It's a map.

It's not just the trenches above me. It's the tunnels underneath. There's a whole maze of them. There's a little red dot where the hatch is that I just climbed down, and then absolute chaos. Who knows if it's even possible to navigate down here with this in your hand. But every bunker, every intersecting trench above me is marked clear as day. It's all there.

The tunnel rumbles a few feet down from me. I swear I see something move, further in the shadows. Who knows if you'd even want to navigate down here, when every corner or dead-end could be a trap. Something in my heart skips.

I rip the map off the wall and take off running back towards the cavern. I tuck the flashlight in my backpack when I reach the ladder, enough light pooling from the outside that I can manage to see. The map is still gripped in my hand. I scale up it as quickly as I can manage, Spens reaching down the last foot to grab my arm and haul me up. I scramble away from the hole once I'm safely above-ground. Both of them stare at me. Spens slams the hatch shut.

"Something down there?" He asks. I must look sufficiently freaked out. I feel it.

"Not that I saw. Just a bad feeling," I tell him. He doesn't try to re-open the hatch, so he must believe me. Elora scoots over to my side and grabs the map from my hand, an eyebrow raised. She unrolls it across her lap.

"No way," she breathes, an excited smile growing on her face. I roll my eyes. Spens slides over until he's crouched in front of both of us, peering at it upside-down from where it's held in her hands. She offers it to him, still smiling when he takes it carefully from her and turns it over so he can see it properly.

Elora throws her arms around me from the side. "Good job!"

I feel like a five year old that just got praise for getting a good test score, but she's too excited to manage anything else. Spens is still looking at it thoughtfully.

"It's not like we can find anyone with it, but—" I start.

"Now we don't have to," he finishes, looking up at the both of us.

Elora whoops, the noise so loud and so close to my ear I wince, but she lets go of me with one arm and grabs Spens, doing nothing but shaking his arm excitedly. The map flutters out of his grip and lands between us.

Now we don't have to. Now all we have to do is stay alive long enough to use it.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

"You ever gonna tell me what you got in that parachute, or is that another thing I should never expect to know?"

Camilla freezes over her pack, staring at me from the corner of her eye.

"I said I'm an idiot, not blind. Remember?" I remind her. She avoids my eyes.

"How do you even know I have it?" She sighs, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. She still won't look at me.

"Did you not hear what I just said? I have eyes. And a minute amount of common sense, sometimes, but it's still there."

Usually she's more entertained when I'm insulting myself, but this time it's not even provoking a reaction. She hasn't really had one since yesterday.

I still can't believe we let Ross and his groupies go. I try to understand the whole "being nice" thing, but that was just stupid. I killed the Seven girl and they took care of the other one, and then I should've killed all three of them and called it a day. Instead they're still roaming out there sans two of Ross' fingers, and the worst part is that they're still alive when they _shouldn't be_.

They wouldn't be if Camilla hadn't grabbed my arm after I aimed my gun at the Nine's kid's head and she told me to back off. Leave them alone even though she hadn't done anything and shouldn't have had any right to pull me away. But she still came after me. She knew what would have happened if she hadn't.

And maybe she doesn't want me to be that person, or didn't want to pretend she hadn't let me go off on a murdering rampage because I'm sick and tired of fucking being in here.

So instead I'm sitting in a trench with her, _again_, resisting the urge to slam my head repeatedly into the wall because I've got nothing else to do.

The parachute flutters lightly into my chest, landing half in the dirt. I look up at her.

"You want to know, right? Stop giving me that judgey look," she complains, turning back to the food she's arranging in her backpack. I frown and unwrap the parachute, grabbing the note as it slips out. I read it over, and then again. And again.

"Astonishing. Really. Thank you so much for letting me read that."

I ball the parachute and the note back up and throw it at her. With the wind, it barely makes it halfway there. I snatch my water bottle off the ground.

"I'm pregnant."

The bottle is halfway to my mouth, and the next thing I know I've crushed it with my bare hand, water leaking out of the top of it. Slowly, painfully slowly, I turn to look at her, the water bottle still clenched in my fist.

"And I'm not kidding," she continues. "So please get that particular brand of _what the fuck_ off your face, because it's really not helping the situation."

I can't make myself move, or say anything remotely intelligent. The water bottle drops out of my hand. Camilla pauses, looks up from her backpack, and stares at me.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what? You can't just fucking say that and then not say anything else!"

"Yeah, well, try me," she spits out. I think we're in a staring contest, now, and I'm guessing she doesn't plan on breaking any time soon. Eventually I look away, fixing my eyes on a random point on the wall across from me. My mouth's hanging open the slightest bit, but I can't find the will to shut it. I imagined a million different scenarios. A million different things that could've been going through her head. And this was never one of them.

"Guess you're a bigger idiot than you thought," she quips, turning away from me. She's acting like it's nothing.

All of my plans for killing her get thrown out the window, under a car, in front of a speeding train. There goes all of those ideas I'd been having.

"Sheridan knew," I say slowly. She gives me an astonishingly slow clap.

"Great job, genius."

"Who else?"

"No one. Besides you and the entire world, but I didn't figure out the last one until yesterday."

Camilla stands up and I follow the movement with my eyes. I stare up and she stares down, eyebrows quirked.

Does she trust me, in some sort of weird way? Does she still after what she saw yesterday?

When did I start trusting her? Maybe it _was_ yesterday, when she grabbed my arm and stopped me from killing three more people. When she stopped me from becoming what everyone already thought I was.

Maybe I am a monster though. There's still thoughts lurking in the back of mind. She has all the sympathy votes, all the money from the people who want her to live her life and raise her damn kid like no one's ever done before. So many people want to see her go home.

And there's a bigger part of me that still doesn't want her to.

* * *

I don't even really know what to say anymore about these guys. They're nuts. Looking at you, Hariwin. Still love you though.

From here on out there isn't a single chapter where someone doesn't die. And maybe that's why I don't know what to say, because I'm afraid I'm going to mentally traumatize some of you, but I'm also going to traumatize myself. If any of you need hugs, I don't know, hug each other. I'll be too busy crying in the corner trying to type to do it.

Until next time.


	30. Lightning Strikes

Arena, Day Ten.

* * *

**Abigail Locey — 17 years  
District Ten Male**

* * *

I've made my decision.

I'm pretty sure it's still the middle of the night, but I haven't been outside to check. My shoulder throbs every time I stand up, and the pain starts spreading through my body the longer on my feet.

There are black lines all the way down my arm, now. I think the few that were spiked up my neck have almost reached my chin, a few spreading dangerously close to my ear. I put my hood up a few hours ago and haven't taken it down since. Quill spent the entirety of last night staring me down, no doubt trying to get me to tell Ross, but I still haven't. I never plan to.

I struggle to my feet, bracing a hand against the wall feather-light. Quill's only a few feet away, but he's fast asleep. Ross slept through most of yesterday and hasn't really changed. I sling a backpack over my good shoulder, wincing when my coat catches against the wound.

I blink, once, fast, and there's a mutt in the corner. I blink again and it's gone. It was never there.

I know it's poison. Quill guessed as much, last night, watching the black veins in my arm move like they were alive. I don't need confirmation. I know it is. I know I'm screwed, unless a miracle happens. And I'm not bringing either of them down with me. I wouldn't even want to live with myself if I let that happen.

So I slip out the door, closing it slowly behind me, teeth gritted against the pain. I wait a few moments outside the door once it's closed, listening for any movement from the inside. Nothing. Neither of them heard me.

_It's for the best_, I remind myself. If I'm going insane, which I know I am, they don't need to see it. They don't need to be hurt by it. They've been through enough and I don't want to be the nail on the coffin that is their sanity. They'll be okay together. Odd, and who knows if it'll stick, but in my heart I think they will be. They're stronger than they know.

I start walking.

I have to stop every few minutes and rest. Whatever was on the knife Acacia got me with seems like it's sapping every ounce of energy from me. Quill was right. It _does_ look evil. Like a disease you can't stop, a sickness that's consuming you.

Something flickers in the corner of my vision, but I don't bother turning. I know nothing's there. When you're going crazy, seeing things that aren't there, the tiredness eventually seeps in and you stop bothering to look. Whatever my brain thinks it is, it's not worth my time.

I think I'm starting to understand why Dess talked about wanting to cry so much in the early days of training. I get it. She was alone, alone like I am now and nothing's ever felt worse. There's no one on my side, no one to grab my hand and tell me that I'm going to be alright, that they'll fix this.

Ross would have, if I had told him. But I don't need to delude him anymore. Bad things happen, and he can't stop all of them. It's how his life works. How it always has.

Quill never deluded me into thinking it would be okay. He never told me that killing Acacia was the right thing to do, never tried to reassure me. And I appreciated it, in a way. Acceptance became a thought process instead of a foreign concept. He made me realize that no matter what we do no one escapes what goes on in here.

I stop again once I turn the next corner. There's a row of bunkers, almost like little matching houses, on either side of the trench. I slowly, painfully walk over to one, trying the door. It won't budge, and I don't have the energy to get to the next one. I lean against it instead, tucking my arm against my side. It burns, like someone soaked it in gasoline and then set it on fire and it refuses to die.

Ironic, when I feel like I'm dying on the outside and my inside's still trying to fight it.

I wonder, idly, if the poison's just on the surface or if there's black veins of it going towards my heart too. If my heart's pumping frantically, knowing that the second it gets there it's going to stop.

I wish the poison had just killed me outright. It would have been easier. Waiting's a bitch.

I'm beginning to understand why Falco hated that so much, too.

If only I had realized that sooner.

* * *

**Elora Farro — 17 years  
District Nine Female**

* * *

I heard something.

At first I thought maybe I had dreamed it and whatever it was woke me up, but I'm not so sure. Spens had shifted in his sleep before stilling again. Kiero hadn't moved, dead to the world, but he almost never does.

I haven't been dreaming much, lately. At least not anything that makes much sense. So I can't for the life of me figure out why the noise I thought I heard sounds exactly like someone tried to open the door of the bunker from the outside.

Hesitantly, I push myself off the floor and into a crouch, reaching out for my sickle. An extension of my arm.

I don't know if there's any point in waking them up. It could be nothing, and then I'll have over-reacted again and there's no point to that, not if nothing's out there. I creep to the door slowly, so my feet make next to no sound on the floor. I press myself against the door, leaning my ear against the cool metal. I can't hear anything. In fact, I haven't heard a single damn thing since the first sound I only thought I heard.

I'm being paranoid. No, worse, I'm acting scared. Like every noise in a bump in the night and none of them mean anything good.

I'm the only one in this room who hasn't killed someone. So why am I acting like I have control over this situation? Like I'll be able to do anything good if we really are in danger?

I should've woken them up. It's too late, though. I don't want to risk making any more noise, or doing anything stupid. I don't want to get us killed.

I lean against the door for a second longer, inhaling deeply. Now or never. I push the door open.

And come face to face, not five feet apart, from the Ten girl. So I do the most logical thing possible.

I step outside and shut the door, stopping after that. Neither of us move. She stares at me, wide-eyed and shocked, leaning against the side of the bunker. She pushes herself off the wall, stumbling a bit, but she readjusts herself so she's standing straight up, wobbling only the slightest. Her eyes stray towards the closed door and I flinch. Not again. They've protected me from it enough. Now I just hope they don't wake up. Not until I've finished this.

It's my turn to keep them from falling apart. And I'll do it any way I have to.

She keeps staring at the door, eyes flicking back to me every so often like she expects them to come bursting out.

"You're not alone. I know you're not."

She says it quietly, though, like she's afraid of them coming out here. I am too. I don't respond.

"You killed anyone?"

I pause, tightening my grip on my sickle, and shake my head. No point in lying. And then I see the glint in her eyes, something I can't properly name. Something not right. Desperation, or uneasiness, or just a generally feeling of _wrong_. All three, maybe.

"Elora, right? I was with Quill. He's fine. Mostly."

She says the mostly like the way people say they're fine when they don't really mean it. I swallow. That's a feeling I've been relating to a lot lately. For once in my life though, words are refusing to form in my throat. Nothing's coming out. I feel like I should say something, try to ask her what's wrong, how long ago she last saw Quill, why she's not running in the opposite direction because I would let her, if she wanted to.

"I guess we're doing this, then?"

I freeze. And then she lunges at me.

I don't get enough time to move out of the way, but she doesn't crash into me fully like I expected. She swings her left arm into me, knocking me to the ground, and stays upright. I can see just by the look on her face that she's in pain just from moving, and the way she's holding her right arm close to her side says it's worse than probably even I know. Now I get why I saw the desperation.

I stare at her from the ground.

"You don't have to do this."_ I don't want to kill you_.

"I'd rather you kill me than either of them."

It doesn't make sense. I wonder if she means Quill. But then who else? Who was she with that she willingly left?

"Then why are you bothering to fight?"

She sighs and looks at the ground. I scramble to my feet, readying myself in case she comes at me again.

"I don't know," she whispers. "There's no point anymore. But it feels wrong not to."

I don't know her but there's something in me screaming sympathy. That she probably needs a damn hug, or a nap, or a hell of a lot of others things. Her home and her family. And she's still asking me to end her before anyone else does.

"Elora," she says quietly. "Please."

I'll never know her, but I reach out carefully with my free hand. She almost takes a step back, hesitating, and then she grabs my hand with her own. I squeeze, as hard as I can, watching her flinch but squeeze back just as tight. There are tears in her eyes, but she keeps looking upward, blinking them back before they can fall. I take a step closer. She meets my eyes and smiles, wobbly.

"I didn't want to die a monster. I didn't want to hurt Acacia. Or them. And not you."

She's rambling. The look in her eyes says she doesn't know she's doing it. Maybe she's not really all there. Maybe that would begin to explain the numerous amount of things that have changed in these past few minutes.

"You're not a monster," I whisper. And then I stab her in the heart.

The sickle sinks in awkwardly. My hand was trembling. And by the time it's fully sunk in, by the time her legs have buckled and she falls to the ground, ripping the weapon out of my grip as it goes down with her, I realize I'm crying.

The sob comes out before I can stop it. I hear the cannon, like it's faraway, or someone put me underwater so I wouldn't have to hear it full-force. I hear the door ripped open too, distantly, hear swearing and god knows what else. Hands frame my face. Kiero's face comes into blurry, wobbly view, his eyes wide and his mouth almost hanging open.

"Hey, hey," he starts, nearing panic. "Elora, what—"

I lean forward and tip my face into his shoulder before he can finish, because I can't stop sobbing. One of his arms wraps around my back, impossibly tight, while the other rests on the back of my head, holding me there. It's a good thing. I tangle my fingers in his jacket, convinced I'm never going to be able to let go. I get it now.

I get why he stopped looking me in the eye as much after he killed Estelle. It's harder to realize why you deserve any sort of human contact after that.

Spens must stop swearing, I think, because I feel a hand that isn't Kiero's rest softly on my back.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. I'd be surprised if they even understood it.

"Don't," Spens says softly, and I can feel his hand tighten every time a sob takes control of my chest. "Please don't."

It takes forever to tip my face out of Kiero's shoulder, but he doesn't let go and I don't either. If anything, Spens steps closer when I move. I just look up the slightest bit, eyes over Kiero's shoulder, staring at the Ten girl's body. And I make myself look, like how I watched when Spens put a bullet in Astrid's head and stabbed Cassia through the chest, when Kiero tore Estelle's throat out with an accidental swing.

Only that's my weapon in her chest. And I didn't falter, or do it accidentally.

She's dead because of me. The worst part is every part of me meant for it to happen.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels ****— 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

It's the cannon that wakes me.

It's not slow, or gradual. It sounds like a gunshot and I've heard too much of that the past week to remain rational when I hear anything remotely similar. It takes me a few seconds to realize it was the boom of a cannon and not the crack of a gun going on.

It takes me a few more seconds to realize that Abbie is gone, and that's when I really panic.

I launch myself into a sitting position as quickly as I can, regretting it instantly when my hand starts throbbing again. Quill's leaning against the opposite wall, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms around them, head tipped back with his eyes cast to the ceiling.

"Where is she?" I demand. It feels like something's sitting on my chest, crushing it.

"Don't know," he says quietly. He slowly looks down, meeting my eyes. I grab my spear off the ground, keeping my other hand tucked against my chest.

"She's gone, Ross."

I freeze, something like icy dread leaking into my veins.

"She's not gone."

"I was awake when she left. I don't know if the cannon was hers. But I know she's gone."

"And you let her go?" I can't help but yell. I've been angry at here plenty of times. At myself, at my alliances, at the choices I've made, but this is something different. This is something out of my control. And I hate it.

"I'm going to find her," I tell him. I don't wait to see if he follows. I definitely don't expect to hear him following me, only I realize he has nothing in his hand. No supplies, no weapons. No indication that he's actually coming.

"She doesn't want to be found."

_"Quill—"_

"I need you to trust me. She doesn't want you finding her."

I see in his eyes that's something's wrong. That he's known for a while, and that he didn't tell me. That she didn't either. And whatever it was it was enough to drive her away from the both of us because she thought she was better off. Abbie wasn't a leader. She knew that. But she was an ally, and a friend, and for her to get up and leave and never tell me something was wrong isn't her. It never was.

"You're telling me to forget about this? Then tell me what the_ hell_ happened!"

Quill shakes his head silently, the scars on his face pulling awkwardly when he frowns.

"You better off not finding her. And you're better off not knowing why."

This is why I am where I am. Because no one ever tells me anything. I started training when I was eleven, and no one told me then how hard it would be. Victors took me into training and pushed me as hard as I could go and never told me how impossible this situation would be. Or maybe that's because they knew the kind of person I would turn out to be and didn't care. No one told me not to volunteer. They chose me to. Maybe I was always battle fodder - for Hariwin, or Sheridan, or Astrid, but I'm still _here_.

It's either nothing or a bunch of lies. All my life, it's all I've got. And I'm done with it.

"Go."

Quill looks back up at me. "What?"

"I'm fucking done. Go."

For a moment I think he's going to tell me no, that he's going to refuse and follow me around anyway. And then his eyes harden, and he turns on his heel and slips back into the bunker. Not a minute later he comes back with his backpack over his shoulder and his gun in hand. He doesn't even look at me again.

The second he starts walking, the minute after where I see him disappear around the nearest corner, I want to go after him.

Abbie could be gone, and I won't know it until tomorrow night. Unless I find her. I can still find her. I can save her.

But if she's dead, then there's no bringing her back. And Quill's gone.

When I walked into these Games, I had the Careers. Even when I killed Falco, they were still there. Some more than others. Supportive or not. When I left them, I at least had a purpose. I was going to find Abbie, and I found more than that. I've never been alone. Not like this.

I never wanted it to be like this.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove** **— 18 years  
District One Female**

* * *

There was a cannon in the middle of the previous night, and then nothing.

We saw it, off in the distance, after it had woken the both of us up. We saw the hovercraft come in and scoop up the body. And even through the darkness, I saw the hair. Blonde as all hell. And if we consider that I'm still here and the Eight guy didn't grow a wig overnight, it's Abigail.

Which means Ross just lost someone else.

I know he doesn't deserve it. But something else occurs to me before that does.

There's only eight of us left. We're in the home stretch. The Gamemakers are about to press their foot down on the gas and ram us into the finale.

The second thought is that there's already a Capitol team on the way to One to interview my family and friends, everyone I ever spoke to. They'll talk to Perseus, but they won't know the baby's his. I only hope he has enough common sense not to tell them. Who am I kidding, though. He doesn't. I can only hope that he avoids the situation entirely.

Maybe _he_ doesn't even know. That would be the ideal situation. Then I could go home and really pretend like it never happened. But there's no doubt in my mind that he knows, even if I don't want to believe it.

Camilla, zero. Life, one. Or maybe it's more than that, at this point.

"That's shitty," Hariwin comments, watching as the hovercraft disappears into the distance.

"Thoughtful."

"I know. I spent a lot of time thinking that one up."

I reach back and flick him somewhere in the face without even bothering to look. He knocks my hand back and resumes his broody and hulking position just behind my shoulder. It still freaks me out, sometimes. I'm tall, but sometimes I won't even hear him come up behind me and I'll turn around only to be face to face with nothing but a brick wall. That, or his chest. Of course he always ends up grinning at my wide-eyed expression, which ruins it just as quickly as it happened, but it's annoying.

He's been doing it less lately. It occurs to me that he might be cutting be some slack ever since I told him about the whole pregnancy deal. That, or he's just being nice. But I'm really not counting on that. The last time I thought he was getting better he punched Terron in the face a day later, and I got over that idea as quickly as Sheridan had mentioned it.

Royal obviously thought I could trust him. At least for now. That, or use him as a meat shield when the time comes to it, but I feel bad. That's what Astrid was going to do. But I think even she would change her mind if she saw what he was now.

He still killed the Seven girl. But I didn't see any malicious intent in his eyes, when I finally caught up.

Like I said. Casualty of war. And all he's ever known is how to be a soldier.

I look at him over my shoulder. "Okay."

"What."

"You've been complaining for almost a week. So let's go. I'm saying okay."

He stares at me, blank-eyed, for a few moments. "You serious?"

"Yeah. We're Careers. And we're going to finish it. And when we get to the Final Two, you'll turn around and let me kill you," I tell him. He'll agree to everything but the last part, and I know it. Sure enough, he scoffs. But he doesn't say what I expect him to.

"Why do I have to turn around?" He asks, and he sounds amused, but there's a smidge more seriousness there than I was expecting.

And what do I tell him? That there's a part of me that doesn't really want to kill him but will do it anyway to get home? That I'm too cowardly to look him in the eye and do it without faltering?

I wasn't lying when I said Sheridan was the closest thing to someone I trusted in here. But in a weird, fucked up way, he was the one to replace her. And I never would have been able to kill her if it came down do it. I just didn't think it would be the same with him.

Hariwin keeps staring at me, evenly, like he knows what I want to say but also knows it'll never come out.

And then the lightning starts coming down.

It's so close, so bright, so loud, so everything lightning is but amplified times a thousand that I nearly scream. I can feel every single hair on the back of my neck stand up. And it's barely raining, so light I can hardly feel it, but the lightning cracks across the sky and the sky rumbles so loud I'm convinced it's going to split in two.

This is it. The Final Eight.

I can't say I'm surprised.

* * *

**9th. Abigail Locey, District Ten Female.**

* * *

And say hello to your Final 8. Congrats to Camilla, Hariwin, Ross, Spens, Kiero, Elora, Quill, and Bear, and whoever the hell made them because I can barely remember at this point. One of the biggest sorry moments so far to Abbie, who I honestly loved so much. I mentioned a long time ago that she originally died a lot sooner because at the beginning I didn't really know where I wanted her to end up. Somewhere around training I went huh, I kind of love her, and then I got her in the Games and went wait no, I really do love her. And I was really grateful for her, I was.

Also, to the person who sent me a PM a few weeks ago saying, "There's no way you can keep all of the Holy Trinity alive until the Final 8," well. Fucking watch me.

Next chapter's a special one. Hopefully everyone still enjoys it. If you wanna know, shoot me a PM. It's not a big secret or anything.

Also, whoever is the first to correctly guess the Final 3 will get approximately nothing. But I really wanna see if anyone can.

Until next time.


	31. Throw Away Your Gods

Arena, Day Eleven. Final Eight Interviews.

* * *

**Ferrox Mervaine** **— 28 years  
Head Gamemaker  
Main Control Room: Level B**

* * *

"You need to sleep."

"I do not."

"Don't make me get my sister. You know she's more terrible than I am."

Ferrox blinks. "Please don't."

Cambria gives him a wry smile, leaning over the back of his chair. He scowls, attempting to scoot away and send her down onto the floor, but she only plants a foot on one of the wheels, effectively stopping him.

"I _could_ get your brother—"

"How is that going to solve the problem?" Ferrox all but squawks, waving his arms indignantly. "He never shuts up!"

Cambria gives him a _look_. "Clearly, it runs in the family."

She stalks away before he has a chance to respond. "I'll be back in 15 minutes, and if you're still here angsting in a corner, I _will_ go get Vesper. Don't make me do it."

Ferrox opens his mouth, letting out a deep sigh when she lets the door slam shut behind her. Sona, on the other side of the control room, let's out a light chuckle. His glare does nothing to stop her. He resumes staring at the holographic map in front of him instead, blinking repeatedly to keep his eyes open. He does need sleep, but he'll sleep when the Games are over.

In short, not much has gone according to plan.

The outliers are more active than he thought. The entire Capitol had planned on more Careers being in the Final 8. Some of his top choices for victor were dead.

Dominika was going to kill him. Figuratively, and then literally. He rubs a hand over his face. He should probably warn Cambria. That, or hope he was really drunk when he finally got executed.

The door bursts open. He closes his eyes, putting a hand over them. Nope. He wasn't ready to deal with ... whatever. Anything, really.

"Wakey wakey, asshole. Got news for you."

"You said 15 minutes," he complains, tilting his head to look back at Cambria. There was a tiny, orange-haired man behind her, a stack of papers in his arm. Who used that much paper anymore? He looked frenzied, though. There were paper shreddings dusting his shoulders.

"What?" He deadpans, looking between the two of them. Cambria and what's-his-name. He probably knows him, or at least should. Cambria sighs and rips one of the papers off the top of the stack, slamming it down in front of him. Ferrox blinks slowly.

"They still can't find anyone in Six. They're getting ready to leave. One's still losing their marbles. Nine can't even find a place to have a damn interview," she lists off. He groans.

"No, wait. You haven't heard the best one," she interjects. "Someone got shot in Four. On camera."

"_What?_"

Cambria stares at him evenly. She taps the paper in front of him with an index finger, but his vision is too blurred with his lack of sleep to read it. The tiny guy behind her blinks frantically. He was practically shaking with nerves. Ferrox watches as a paper escapes his grip and fluttered to the floor.

"Do I want to know who?" Ferrox asks quietly, tapping against his knee with a pen. He doesn't even want to look up. Cambria's stare was a frightening thing, because for once it wasn't hardened, or angry, or judging him. She looked scared. He can't remember the last time he saw that look. At his parent's funeral, maybe.

"Get Vesper," he says under his breath, feeling something like dread fill him when she gave no answer. Cambria says something to the assistant and he darts from the room, papers and all. "I need a drink."

If he thought he was a dead man before, he definitely is now.

He might as well already have the noose around his neck.

* * *

**Perseus Vellere — 18 years**  
**District One**

* * *

Spending a full day evading the approximate half a million Capitolities that invaded One is quite the task.

They would ask him too many questions he's nowhere ready to answer. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to answer them, not unless Camilla comes back.

He's spent the past twenty minutes hiding in one of the bathrooms in the Mayor's house. This was a last resort, not one he wanted to bug Beatrice with, but she's as much Camilla's best friend as he is. And if they're being honest, this house is massive. If any Capitolities did have the frame of mind to come for him here, Bea would probably talk them to death first.

He opens the door hesitantly. The hallway's blissfully empty, but he finds he can't make himself go any further. He leans against the wall outside the bathroom door and slides down until he can bring his knees up to his chest, sighing deeply.

"You okay, Pers?"

He hadn't even heard Beatrice come up the stairs, but there she was, sitting down next to him and fanning her white dress out around her knees. He shrugs so hard his shoulders nearly touch his ears.

"Camilla's going to come back. You know she is," Beatrice says gently, leaning her chin into her hand, glancing at him curiously. He doesn't know that, though, because he's the only one who really knows the answer to the questions that are plaguing everyone.

Who's kid is that? Why'd she volunteer, if she knew? _Did_ she know? Or did she stumble into it blind?

It's his. She volunteered because she had nothing else. She didn't know. She was always blind.

And it makes him sick.

One's been in turmoil ever since the Reapings, even though it's died down. And then Estelle got killed by an outlier when she shouldn't have even been reaped, and Amara Williams died before her time, and One's only hope is Camilla, who's no longer fighting for herself. She never was. No one here knows how to deal with that. All we've been accustomed to is victory, or martyrs, or draping coffins with gold and diamonds while saying it's better that they died in there than did nothing at all.

He wonders if Camilla still thinks that. Perseus knows she used to.

She almost said as much, at the Goodbyes. Him and Bea went in together, because her family had taken up almost all of the time. And Bea had hugged her, told her she was proud and that she expected just as good of a hug when she got back. But he had hesitated.

He hadn't known, then. Hadn't even entertained the possibility of something like this happening. But something inside him had known that something was wrong, that he shouldn't be letting her go. Not because he thinks he could love her, if she let him, but because he might not get her back. So he had hugged her too, wrapped his arms around her for longer than what should've been allowed, and she had smiled into his shoulder and told him not to get sentimental. He'd see her soon, she had said. Only a few weeks and I'll be right back here annoying you.

It feels like it's been years. Too long, too much time for him to get lost in his own head without her here to pull him out.

"It's yours, isn't it?"

Perseus freezes, very pointedly avoiding Beatrice's eyes. For all she is, for all everyone thinks she is because she lives in this house, she's damn smart. And he can't make himself say yes, because he's never had to say it outloud. He can feel Beatrice staring at him sadly, like his silence is confirmation is enough, and she leans up on her knees and wraps her arms around his shoulders, tucking his head under her chin. He resumes staring blankly at the wall.

And God, he's never felt this lonely, this empty of hope, even with a friend still by his side.

Because he doesn't know that Camilla's coming back.

And he doesn't know if she ever will. Not from this.

* * *

**Eleutherius Saylor — 22 years**  
**District Four**

* * *

Everything was too damn loud for him.

He had his hood drawn up, traversing the streets of Four with the hopes that no one would recognize him. He wasn't much without the uniform, but he and Hariwin still looked too similar for his liking. Someone from a straggling camera crew would drag him off to God knows where and he'd be done for.

Leuth wasn't good with cameras. Or people in general, really.

It was warm, but he shoved his hands in his pockets, turning the corner to the street he'd always know. It still felt alien. He hadn't been in this house in so long, but he's still recognize it anywhere.

Even though there were hordes of rainbow people running around, shrieking into microphones and shoving random pedestrians out of the way. Still home. Or at least it used to be.

He slipped down a side alley and stepped lightly onto the stoop by the side door. A Capitolian woman, pink hair in an elaborate up-do, stared at him from the street, head tilted to the side like an exotic bird. Leuth turned his head, glancing back to make sure she had gotten distracted by something else before rapping lightly on the door.

He doesn't know when these steps started feeling like a stranger instead of old friends.

It takes a minute. It's so loud all around him it's a miracle his brother answers the door at all.

Tyge peeks his head out, dark hair combed and gelled back, eyebrows almost touching his hairline.

"Leuth?"

It's skeptical, and he feels bad. His family's made up of strangers too now, it seems.

"You gonna let me in?"

Tyge slips the deadbolt out and opens the door the slightest bit, allowing Leuth to slip in. He still looks confused.

"We ... we didn't think you we're going to show up. Dad spent a few hours looking for you."

He shrugs absentmindedly. He almost didn't. But he's watching the Games like anyone else. Hariwin's changing. Has changed. He's not the kid who slammed the door in his family's face at the goodbyes.

He's changing, too, but he doesn't really know how yet.

"They're interviewing Mom and Dad right now. Don't let any of the stylists catch you or they'll attack you with hair gel. And foundation," Tyge tells him helpfully, leading the way into the kitchen. He peers around the corner into the living room. "Yep. Still going."

They're both still awkward, tense and unsure of how to act around each other. The seven years between them feels like a distance he doesn't quite know how to breach.

"You go in yet?" He asks quietly. He peers around the corner as well. His father and mother are seated in identical chairs that definitely don't belong to them **—** huge, ornate things with gold lining. Typical.

"Nah. After them, though. And maybe you, too?"

Leuth doesn't know why he came. As soon as he shows his face, they're going to jump on him. He knows that. Tyge knows that.

He grimaces internally, watching the interview go on in the living room with mild distaste. His father glances towards him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrows quirked in surprise. One of the cameraman's eyes land on him. He swears, ducking just out of sight. He can still see his Mom from here. The interviewer's voice is monotone, disinterested, but he can still make it out quite clearly.

"We've had … information delivered to us that there have been reports of underground rebellious activity here in District Four. Do you have any comment on that?"

His mother pauses, staring at the interviewer with a furrow in her eyebrows. Something in Leuth's heart stops.

"I don't see what this has to do with my son, or the Games," is all she gives back.

"Well. Our reports suggest you may be involved with it."

His mother goes perfectly still. His father turns in his chair, staring at her expectantly. Waiting for her to deny it. But she wasn't prepared for that. None of them were.

"What's going on?" Tyge asks quietly, peering around his side. Leuth reaches back and grabs his arm in a vice tight grip the second his Mom's eyes land on him, just around the corner. Something changes. He doesn't have time to figure it out before everything goes to hell.

The front door slams open. He has one second to turn towards the sound, using his grip on Tyge's arm to swivel his brother behind him.

Another second. There are four Peacekeepers coming towards them. He can fend them off. He's been trained to fend off more than that.

The third second. Tyge yells something incoherent, or maybe his brain's just not processing. Tyge's arm gets ripped out of his grip. He whips around. Something cracks into his head from behind. He goes down in a heap, like his legs were cut right from beneath him. There's blood trickling, warm and wet, through his hair, and there are stars blinking in and out behind his eyes.

Footsteps stomp past him. His mother screams something. That's even more incoherent.

Leuth makes himself open his eyes. Tyge is on the ground across him from, pushed into a corner of the room, eyes wide and terrified. His head's throbbing, but he manages to push himself onto his hands and knees, stumbling up and gripping the edge of the doorframe with shaky hands.

He sees his mother, on the floor by her overturned chair. Someone's holding his father back. He sees the gun, but his brain's not making sense of it. Shiny. Chrome. Not real. It's not real. There's no way it's real. He's seen guns before, held them in his hands, and it's not real.

_Bang._

* * *

**Genivieve Marks — 16 years**  
**District Four**

* * *

"The fuck was that?" Caspian mutters, swinging his legs back and forth from his perch on the kitchen counter. Genivieve strides to the doorway, eyebrows furrowed in concern. There are people yelling frantically outside. Mostly the Capitolities.

Something bangs. Loud. She doesn't know if she's heard that before, but there's something telling her she has. Rare, especially in Four, but not a dead practice.

"Who's putting on a firework show right now, honestly," Caspian deadpans, staring at her. He hasn't moved.

She starts running. She vaults off the steps of Ross' home, leaving Caspian yelling after her and Ross' Mom alone with a horde of people way too eager to talk to her. She doesn't care.

It's a few streets over and up, but there's a crowd of people you could see from a mile away. Her dress is flapping around her legs. She starts to shove through the people, trodding on toes and pushing against shoulders until people slide out of her way.

She recognizes that house. There were camera crews setting up there earlier, just like at Ross' house.

There's so much going on that no one notices her at the side of the house, jogging towards the door. Her small frame easily slips past a bulk of Peacekeepers, and then she's in the entranceway.

The front hallway is eerily quiet. The Peacekeepers out front are more focused on keeping the ever-growing crowd back. She steps carefully, quietly, like she's afraid someone will jump out and grab her if she's not. Someone's sobbing – great, agonized heaves of breath that overtake the pounding of her heart. Nothing makes sense.

The first doorway she glances through is empty. The second one shows the beginnings of a kitchen. She know it's bad before she even steps inside.

She recognize the smaller one. Hariwin Saylor's younger brother. He's being held behind someone who looks eerily similar, only he's got blood dripping into the collar of his jacket, arms braced tight to keep the smaller one behind him. The smaller one's the one sobbing, looking ready to collapse even though he's holding onto the other one.

Brothers. They have to be brothers.

They're both staring through the doorway opposite them. She don't want to look. She makes herself do it anyway.

There's a woman lying on the floor, blood splattered on the wall behind her. It takes her a second to put it together. The bullet hole in her forehead is almost covered by her hair. Someone's holding her. An older man, with dark hair like the two boys who are both staring at her now, no doubt wondering who she is.

They didn't do this. They didn't destroy his family.

She thinks that maybe they did

Two Peacekeepers come striding into the room, stun batons at the ready. They start walking towards the two boys.

"Don't touch him! Don't fucking touch him!" The older one yells, and he's shoving the one away, throwing a perfectly practiced right hook at the other, who crumples like a sack of bricks. Someone grabs her elbow from behind. She sees a white, a gloved hand, and throws her elbow back without hesitation. It doesn't break the Peacekeeper's nose, but it starts bleeding enough that he looks mildly pissed off about it.

"Geni!"

It's Caspian. He has to be outside. The Peacekeeper grabs her again. Oh well.

She knees him in the crotch as hard as I can. Now he's lying on the floor like his friend across the room. She darts down the hallway and catches the front door as it swings shut. Caspian's being held back by a row of riot shields.

"Go back! Go find his Mom, make sure she's okay!"

He stares at her, blinking. He doesn't know. Of course he doesn't.

"Go!"

He turns back the way he came and starts running. She can only be grateful that he listened. They can't have touched Ross' Mom. She's innocent. She hasn't done anything. But she needs to be sure.

"Hey!"

That's back in the house. The older one is striding towards her, and for a split second she thinks she's the next one getting punched. Instead, he shoves the younger one towards her, who looks about ready to fall apart.

"I need you to take him."

"What?" She startles, eyes wide.

"They'll go after him, I just need you to take him. I'll find you later, I promise. Please."

She knows just by the way that he says it that please isn't a regular part of his vocabulary. The older one grabs the younger again, one hand on the back of his head and the other on his shoulder.

"Tyge, just go with her. I'll find you, okay. I will."

"Leuth**—**"

"_Listen to me_. I will find you. I'm not leaving, not again."

There's more here going on than she knows. She knows someone's dead in the other room and that if Hariwin Saylor comes back, he's going to tear the District apart. If Hariwin Saylor comes back, that means that Ross will be dead.

The older one **—** Leuth **—** nods at her and shoves Tyge towards her again. She grabs his arm and starts off towards the door. The crowd's in a panic. Almost all of them notice the two of them leaving the house, starting the run back down the street. A few people part ways for them to go. Some even put hands on their backs, urging them forward, away from the scene.

They turn the corner back towards the main street. Caspian nearly slams into them.

"She's okay. She is, Geni, I don't know what's going on but she is, no one's touched her."

Relief slams into her. His Mom's okay. But Caspian's staring at Tyge with wide, confused eyes. Tyge is one year younger than her and yet it feels like centuries, watching him heave for breath with horrified tears staining his face.

"We need to go. I'll tell you everything, okay. We just need to take him with us," she explains quickly, and Caspian nods, grabbing Tyge's other arm and starting back off down the street.

"His Mom'll take him, you know she will."

She will. But there's no guarantee it'll last.

Everything fell apart the moment Ross left. Genivieve didn't want to believe it, didn't want to believe that the mess would ever show itself, but she felt like she was always waiting for it.

She thinks it just did show itself in the worst way possible. And it's not his fault. He's one of her best friends and he's in the Hunger Games and he may never know this happened, because in a few days he could be dead. If he was here, though, she thinks Ross might have been able to stop it.

* * *

**Myria Laconna — 19 years**  
**District Six  
**

* * *

Spens' grandmother dies three days before the Capitol comes to District Six.

And by the time they get here, there's no one left for them to interview.

They spend half a day scouring for someone to interview. A family friend, a friend in general, a relative so distant that they were forgotten about. But they don't find anybody. And they're halfway finished packing up to leave the same day they got here when one of them peels away from the group and comes knocking on their door, demanding to speak to her brother.

For a few minutes, she's terrified. Listening to her father talk to them, asking why they had to speak to them when there was an entire District to look to.

She knew already, though. Everyone watched Spens volunteer for her brother. Everyone watched her wrap her arms around him when he ran back to her, because she realized he was safe and he wasn't going to die and maybe someone was sparing her family from something, for once in their lives.

Myria looks back at Nathan, sitting on the couch, trying in vain to see down the hallway towards the front door through her. He looks towards her nervously.

"Stay here, Nate."

She turns the corner in the hallway and instantly a camera flashes in her face. She winces, shielding her eyes.

"Oh! That's the sister!" Someone on their front porch squeals, and her Dad turns around, eyes regretful and sorry and he won't be able to stop this. The group of them stare at her, blonde hair disheveled and sweater so large she could wear it as a dress, wide-eyed and curious. The lead one, candy-purple hair tilted comically to the side, smiles widely at her father.

"May we come in? Oh, just for a few moments, I promise!"

She feels Nate come up behind her back. A few more cameras go off in both of their faces. Instantly Myria reaches back, tightening a hand around his arm.

"It's both of us or neither," Myria says firmly. Nathan nods instantly behind her back. Purple hair pumps a fist into the air and barges through the door like her Dad isn't there, instantly gathering the two of them up while pushing them towards the living room.

"We don't have much time! Spent all day looking for his damn family. Kid doesn't have any. Typical," she mutters. The last part is under her breath, and wasn't meant to be heard, clearly, and Myria can't help but glare at her, Nathan following suit when he realizes what she just said. The women swallows and plasters a smile back on her face.

"Anyway!" She starts, taking a step back. "I'm Astra. We'll just fix you two up and get to interviewing!"

To put it bluntly, Myria Laconna's been excited about a lot lesser things.

By fixing up they mean layering a pound of make-up on her face and twisting her hair into some sort of elaborate up-do. It's uncomfortable and sticky and forced and she hates it, but if this is what she has to do then she'll do it.

Finally they sit her down in the couch in her family's living room and shove Nate down beside her. He swallows nervously and she grabs his hand, squeezing tightly. There are a few, rapid hand signals made and she hears the motion of the camera turning on, sees them maneuver the lighting in the room to suit it better. Their father is lurking in the doorway, glaring at the whole procession in silence.

"So!" Astra begins. "How do you two know Spens?"

She _doesn't_ know him. She probably never will.

All she knows, all she'll ever have is that he saved her brother's life.

And for that she's never been more grateful.

* * *

**Vero Mearlove — 14 years  
District Eight**

* * *

Soren's been kicking rocks in the street for the past 15 minutes.

And if she's being honest here, which she is, it's starting to get annoying.

"That's real macho of you!" Vero yells at him. Marylaw, sitting next to her on the porch, cracks a smile. Soren promptly gives her the finger. He's been doing that a lot lately. The few days after the reaping he would look around after he did it, like he expected Kiero to hit him or yell at him for corrupting his sister even more than he thinks she already is. He's stopped now. She don't know if it's because he's given up or because he lost the energy to keep looking.

"Y'know, you would look a lot more intimidating if you didn't have a button-up on and weren't built like a string bean," Marylaw comments. He glares at her and finds another rock to kick. It lands at her feet and she throws it back to him.

Vinsley comes stumbling wearily out the door behind the two of them, slumping down on the porch next to Marylaw.

"Those people are fucking insane," he moans. "I never thought they'd let me out."

"Hopefully they take you with them when they leave," Soren comments casually. Marylaw passes a rock into Vinsley's hand and he throws it, missing by a mile when Soren ducks out of the way and nearly falls into the road.

"They want you now, Marylaw," Vinsley remembers. "Have fun!"

"Why me?" She yelps. "Why not Soren?"

"Because he's a dirty District kid kicking rocks at random strangers in the street, why do you think?"

"I am not!" Soren yells indignantly. A Capitol woman comes swooping out the door, grabbing Marylaw's arm with a vice tight grip. She doesn't even fight it, just sends Vero a frantic _help me_ look before she's dragged inside. Soren snickers and Vinsley throws another rock at him.

She misses Kiero.

She's thought it a lot. Kiero would be the one shoving Soren out of the street and apologizing to the random old people he almost keeps injuring, the one snatching rocks out of the other two's hands before they could launch them. If he was here, she wouldn't feel like something was missing.

They bicker. A lot. And he never finishes the fights, because he doesn't want to be that person. Doesn't want to push her away, or fracture their relationship, or lose her for good. Marylaw's all but adopted her since Kiero left, maybe to fill the hole in their group or because she feels like she has to take care of his younger sister. She doesn't. She was always the strong one in the family, the reckless one that didn't need any hands to help her. But having Marylaw around, having Soren and Vi around, it makes it a little bit better. They love Kiero as much as she does.

Vero doesn't know if she's ever genuinely told him that she loves him.

"I really don't know how to tell people I care about them," she mutters under her breath, and Vinsley slides a bit closer, pausing for a moment.

"Well, don't ask Soren. He doesn't either!" He says helpfully.

"Vi, _I swear to God_—"

Vinsley gives a half-hearted scream as Soren quite literally drags him off the step and into the street. Both of them are windmilling around, kicking up a cloud of dust into the air, and both of their white shirts definitely aren't white anymore.

Soren looks over his shoulder at her, Vinsley still trapped in his arms and digging elbows into Soren's ribs. He really is a beanpole.

But Vero sees it in his eyes. He gets it. Probably more than anyone else does. There's only so much she did. She hugged Kiero, looked her brother in the eyes and told him that he had to fight for it, but she never once told him she loved him, or that she'd be proud no matter what happened, or that she'd never forget him.

Soren didn't say any of those things, either. But that she can see that in his eyes too. He wish he had.

* * *

**Willow Grove — 15 years**  
**District Nine**

* * *

"You're Grove's sister, aren't you?"

Willow freezes and very pointedly avoids turning around, looking very interested in something that isn't interesting at all. Her and Quill are both very good at it. It's weird.

She doesn't know how much longer she can stare at this particular crack in the road, though. She peers over her shoulder. It's a Peacekeeper, helmet hanging under his arm.

"No," she decides, and resumes poking at the variety of little stands in the middle of the square. The Peacekeeper huffs out a laugh.

"Y'know, no one's going to believe that," he tells her, pacing along slowly a few feet behind her. "Shouldn't you be doing an interview, or something?"

"I already _did_," she almost snaps, turning around to face him. He looks amused.

"So you are his sister. Good to know."

Willow stops, frowning. His grin intensifies.

"Don't you have anything better to do than harass teenage girls? How old are you, thirty-five?"

He frowns. "_I'm_ being the civil one. And I'm twenty-one."

Willow figured he was young, but that's still much younger than she thought.

"That still doesn't explain the harassing," she informs him, almost laughing when he sighs, shoulders dropping. He looks around at the other people lurking in the square, a few of them hesitantly watching the exchange from a distance. They all know who she is. It's people barging in and being nosy that she has a problem with.

"Look, you didn't hear it from me, but something went down in Four. Capitol-pro section of the Peacekeeper force went rogue and trigger-happy against orders. None of us want to have it happen again."

Huh. That's not what she expected either.

"Trigger-happy? Who'd they shoot?"

Young Peacekeeper guy stops dead. "No one you know."

"Yeah, no shit, because I live here."

He blinks in surprise but turns his eyes to the side. Guess she's not getting anything else. It was worth trying, though. And at least now she has information. She doesn't know how she's going to get more, but there's gotta be a way.

"So, are you my bodyguard now, not-thirty-five-young-Peacekeeper?"

"My name's Elian."

"I know. You were at the Goodbyes, but you didn't know anyone there. I checked."

"Are you always like this?"

"What, infuriating? Probably."

Elian blinks frantically, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Hey, you signed up for this job. Stop whining."

"Your brother doesn't seem this infuriating."

"My brother's also got an expiry date. I don't."

He stops dead, eyes wide when she says it. Her heart aches the second she even thinks to blurt it out. But she hates denial. Hates putting blinders on and pretending that her saying he's going to come home makes it true. Quill's one of two people in the final eight who hasn't killed someone, and the only other one is twelve years old. So what chance does he have? Does he have a chance at all?

Suddenly, she's angry. She's not surprised. It's been happening a lot lately.

"You know what, you should go be his bodyguard. I don't need it. He does."

He doesn't stop her when she turns and storms away. She feels bad. It's not Elian's fault her brother's probably going to die. But everyone who says the wrong thing feels like the enemy, nowadays. It's hard to tell who really is.

She hopes Quill figures it out before she does.

* * *

**Kaden Merrick — 17 years**  
**District Nine**

* * *

Kaden don't think this is typical protocol.

They can't go to Elora's actual house, because there's no way in without the Capitol being charged with some sort of offense for breaking and entering. Aerin had opened her mouth, ready to spill about the side window with the loose lock, but he had quickly slapped his hand over her mouth. There's stuff the Capitol needs to know, and there's the stuff they don't.

Seeing her parents high, or drunk, or passed out is one thing. Seeing a combination of all three is the most likely one, and not something they need to see.

Marley had told him they'd been getting better lately, he thinks. That Elora getting reaped snapped them out of it.

And then she killed someone last night, and no one's heard from the pair of them since.

He can't say he blames them exactly. He watched it happen too, and then he got up and locked myself in his room, silent for hours. He would've been like that all night had Aerin not climbed through his window and sat shoulder to shoulder with him until the morning. He think she dozed off, at one point, but she denies it vehemently.

Which is why they're where they're are. Over-tired, wanting this to be over, and leading a horde to Marley's way too small box of a house.

It's also why he opens the door, tie around his neck and no doubt almost on his way over, and instantly looks like he wants to slam the door shut.

Aerin's worrying her lip between her teeth, very pointedly avoiding his eyes. He turns to Kaden. Kaden grabs his arm and slowly pulls him outside, towards the nearest corner of the house. The horde instantly tramples through the now empty doorway.

"Your parents weren't answering," he says quietly. "They suggested the Justice Building if there's no where else, but..."

"I get it," Marley sighs. "Just wish it wasn't like this."

Marley looks towards the door, eyebrows pinched together at the ruckus coming from inside. Aerin crosses her arms over her chest and takes a step onto the porch, peering inside. She instantly pulls her head back out, looking at the two of them still standing outside.

"Oh, shit," Marley blurts out, staring over his shoulder. He sighs and rips the tie from around his shoulders a little more violently than he usually would. Kaden turns.

Elora's and his parents are making their way down the street. Talisa's ahead, as always, clenching at her own hands. Harvey's walking absentmindedly behind her, picking at his shirt sleeve. They don't look like parents. Not even close.

"Why'd you even bother?" Marley says, a little venomously. They stop about five feet away.

"Son**—**"

"_Don't_," Marley insists, and he never sounds angry unless he's talking about them. "We're not doing this now. Not here. Just go."

"We're here for Elora. For you," Talisa says quietly, but the nervousness in her eyes is betraying her. Marley looks furious.**  
**

"No point in starting now. You've never been here before. You're just off destroying your lives or trying to destroy ours."

A small Capitol man leans out of the door, eyebrows quirked in interest. Aerin steps forward and quite literally shoves him back inside. Kaden takes a few steps back towards her. He doesn't want to get involved in this. This isn't his problem, his family.

But Elora feels like it, though. Like she should be his sister. And if she's his sister, then Marley's family too.

"He doesn't want you here," Kaden insists, voice louder than it usually is. Aerin's eyes widen in surprise.

If Elora doesn't come back, will this be who he turns into? A little louder, a little stronger, the slightest bit braver. Ready to stand up, refusing to take the shit that gets thrown at him every day. He's done putting up with it.

They're in a five-way staring match. Harvey looks away almost instantly. Aerin's all but peeking over his shoulder. But Marley's not going to back down. He never has, not when it comes to this. And now Kaden can't either. Just because Elora's not here doesn't mean he can't stand up for what she would have wanted. _Wouldn't_ have wanted.

And she doesn't want this. That's why she separated herself from this in every way she could. Why she tried to turn her life around, why she's still working on it.

She's a good person, Elora. Always has been. But he still watched her kill someone, and doesn't know how to feel about it.

Talisa lowers her eyes.

Kaden refuses to, no matter how long this goes on.

Only he doesn't really know what part of his life he's talking about anymore. It's bigger than this. Bigger than this moment that will fade to something insignificant in the next few days.

It's bigger than all of them.

* * *

**Mari Pollard — 12 years**  
**District Eleven**

* * *

"You alright, dear?"

Mari blinks up at the stylist currently applying God knows what to her face.

"What? Yeah. Sorry."

He stares at her thoughtfully, and then resumes his work, digging around in the bag on the side table next to them. After a few moments of staring into the bag he turns back to her.

"No, you're good enough. Don't need to make you look any older."

"Thanks?" Mari questions, unsure if he meant it in a good way or not. He grabs her hand and leads her back into the sitting room, rotating her until he can push her back in a chair that's so plush she nearly sinks into it entirely.

The camera crew's still setting up. There's people running around, some purposefully, some in general circles that end only when they nearly run into her chair before they run around it and resume their running patterns. It's hectic. The rest of Bear's family is in the other room, eyes on the television. Or at least his parents are. She hopes June and Sugar aren't.

Stylist man swivels his head around, raises a hand towards her, and disappears into the crowd. He's swallowed up almost immediately. It's hectic. This house is barely big enough for Bear's family, let alone all of these unfamiliar, foreign people.

She's his friend, though. And so she has to be there. When you're this young they let you opt out, if you want to, but she felt wrong avoiding the situation. Her closest friend is in the Hunger Games but by some form of a miracle he's still alive and she hopes going strong.

"Just give us a few more minutes here, darlin'!" The nearest person calls. She has no idea what's taking so long. They're probably supposed to be better at this stuff, or at least more efficient.

Bear would hate it. He'd be kicking and swearing up a storm and avoiding anyone that tried to put a hand on him. It's almost amusing wondering how he was before the chariots, if his costume and the fruit in his hair was anything to go by.

It's good to think of him that way. As the friend she always knew, who'd fling fruit peels at her from the trees and then disappear into them, cackling. He's not the same anymore, though. There's the part of her that wants him back and the part of her that won't be able to stand him hurting someone, or killing someone. With the competitors that are left she doesn't know if he'll even get the chance.

There's a scream from the other room. Mari's heart leaps into her throat.

Someone tries to stop her from getting out of the chair, but she's leaping up and running towards the living room before she thinks that it might be a bad idea.

Bear's mother is on her feet. His father is ushering June and Sugar into the kitchen, but he turns back and nearly sprints back to the front of the television.

She can barely see.

"What's happening?" She whispers. His father turns around and meets her eyes. He looks scared, terrified in a way she's never really seen before, but the hope's not entirely gone.

Mari leans around the pair of them. There's lightning splitting across the entirety of the screen, faded with the age of the television. It's focused on the two Careers. They look more calm than what should be allowed.

The screen turns to Bear. She only knows it's him because of how small he is in comparison to everyone else. And the camera's angled over his shoulder, following whatever he's looking at.

He can see them. Mari thinks they're looking back. That they can see him too.

"No," she trembles. "Please no."

He starts running. And she has no choice but to watch.

* * *

**Mulberry Flax — 12 years  
District Eleven Male**

* * *

The lightning blinds me.

It started coming down a few hours ago. It's stronger than normal. Brighter, it burns hotter. It's artificial. Everything in here is, of course, but the prospect of getting fried to a crisp is infinitely more real in here than it is back in Eleven.

It doesn't blind me completely, though.

And that's when I see them. Apparently the Careers and I aren't done yet.

They're far enough away that they can't instantly leap forward and kill me. But even through the wind and the rain I can still make them out even with getting blinded every few seconds.

I do the only thing I can think of to do. I start running. It's what I've been doing all along.

I don't know if they're giving chase because I don't bother looking over my shoulder. If they're going to catch up, they will. I can't waste time looking to see if it's going to happen.

I jump down into the nearest trench, wincing when I slam myself into the wall to keep myself from falling over entirely. I slip around the next corner, grabbing the wall to push myself forward. I can do this.

The next corner I turn is a dead end.

Fuck me.

I have no choice but to go back, which means heading back towards them. I start running faster, even though my lungs are burning and my legs are too from propelling myself forward in this stuff.

The next trench I pick is at random, hoping it's in the general direction of _away_. And Camilla's standing at the other end of it.

She stares at me for a few moments, while I barely dare to move, shaking in the wind. My fists clench out of reflex. I wouldn't be able to make it up one of these walls to higher ground without her getting to me first. I get ready to turn around and run again, mentally preparing myself.

It takes me a split second, without turning, to realize that I can _feel_ someone behind me. That it's a presence, a very real presence.

Hariwin's closer, but I'm not facing him. Who do I go for? Who do I have a better chance at escaping?

I remember Paloma's advice on the train. She said that I wouldn't want to, but I could catch the eye of whoever I thought held the most sympathy. Maybe they'd slip, pretend it was an accident, and I could escape and hide myself in one of the numerous nooks and crannies in these trenches.

I stare back at Camilla. It's hard to make out what she's thinking when I'm not closer to her. I take a small, careful step towards her.

Hands grabs my shoulders, vice tight, and fling me straight to the ground a few feet away. My head slams into the ground, stars blinking behind my eyes. Hariwin barely moved when he threw me, and yet I'm a solid few feet from where I was previously standing.

By the time I look back at Camilla, she's standing almost straight above me. My heart nearly stops when my eyes lock onto the knife on her hand.

Meet the eyes of whoever could let me go. I know Hariwin won't. He's still lurking behind us, menacing as ever. I thought she might. But I'm beginning to think I was wrong. The second that thought crosses my mind, I know I can't use sympathy. I won't beg. I can't. It isn't who I am.

I raise myself to my elbows, still laid out in the mud.

"Do it," I tell her. I'm terrified. I've never been this terrified. But Camilla hesitates.

"I was dead anyway," I spit at her. "_Do it_."

My family's watching this. Everyone is, I remind myself. I still don't want to die. But if I have to I'm going right now, like this, not pleading for someone to spare me just to die a few days from now.

Camilla raises the knife. I keep staring at her.

The rain's so cold I barely feel the knife, just see the shiny, glittering steel as the lightning reflects off of it, before it slashes across my chest, ripping through layers of skin and muscle.

I don't die right away. Of course not. That's just life deciding it needs a few more moments of misery from me. The pair of them leave. She stabbed me deep, but the blood's oozing out sluggishly, dripping down both of my sides. It fucking hurts.

I didn't think it would hurt this much.

Why am I surprised? All my life's ever been is hurt. All I've ever gotten in return for trying to live. I should've tried harder. Should've hugged my sisters more. Should have stopped complaining sooner.

I should've started living before I started dying.

* * *

**8th. Mulberry Flax, District Eleven Male.**

* * *

Even when I write a chapter that's barely focused on the Games I still have to kill a minimum of two people. Fact.

Baby Bear, though. God he was fun to write. He was so different from that standard twelve year old that you see all the time, and I loved him for it. He admittedly did fade a bit, further on, but I never cared for him any less, even if I did put him through hell. Believe this, he's still bitching no matter where he went.

Seven left. If there's any victor predictions, I think they'll start after the next chapter or two. Or now if you're really clever. Very few chapters left until the victor, though.

If you want, tell me your favorite POV from this bunch, because I had a ton of fun writing them. I am sorry for the switching from third person to first, but it's the annoying way in which I write certain groups of people. This was supposed to be your calm break from the madness but I kind of ruined it. Multiple times. Also, the next update will happen this upcoming Thursday! I'll be away Friday until the Monday and I don't want to make you guys wait, hence updating today instead of waiting until tomorrow.

Until next time.


	32. Remember Me

Arena, Day Twelve.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

I really am alone.

Seeing Abbie's face in the sky confirmed that.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't try to go after Quill. But it was too late. I waited too long. By the time I went to look he was long gone. I can't say I'm surprised. All he knows is running, so he did just that. Wherever he is, I doubt I'm going to see him again. It's fitting, I guess. It's the Final 7, after last night, so how long would I have been able to stay with him anyway? It would only make it harder to kill him, if it ever came to that.

Having Abbie here made me believe that I made the right choice in killing Acacia. But with her gone the overwhelming feeling of disgust is coming back. We did it together, only I still couldn't save her.

I can't dwell on it. If I allow myself to focus on what I could have done, then it's all I'll think about. And I'm too close to not think about anything but going home.

I don't know if I'm going home. Killing was the obstacle. I've done that. Twice. Camilla and Hariwin might be next and I don't think I can take both of them on my own unless I get really lucky.

Long story short, Quill could be really useful right about now.

Does it make me a horrible person for thinking it? They'd probably kill him. But I might have a chance.

Maybe I'm more like the rest of the Careers than I ever thought.

I think I've already proved that, though. Two kills to my name. Pushing away everybody in my original alliance, and then everyone in my next one. Ending up utterly alone because maybe it's better.

I've been sitting on a crate for what has to have been a half hour by now, but I haven't seen much lightning strike down into the trenches, and that's where I've hunkered down. It's working, I think. No point to all of this if I end up getting fried to a crisp before I can do anything.

Six people left. And then I can go home.

Absentmindedly, I wonder who got Abbie. Camilla might have stopped Hariwin from doing it. But would anyone else have hesitated? Is there any point to even wondering about it?

There's a bigger part inside me telling me to get over it. And there's the one deep down that's saying I want whoever did it dead.

That's not the mentality I ever wanted, going in here. I wasn't going to be malicious. But then I almost lost it after killing someone, which was never the plan, saw an ally get a bullet in the head with no remorse less than five minutes after the gong rang. Hariwin didn't get to watch Astrid die, and I didn't get to find Abbie. But that's irony. Maybe it's the Gamemakers. No one cares enough to let us try. Monsters don't try.

Maybe I have to be malicious.

Maybe that's what they've wanted all along.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

I think Elora's handling it better than both of us thought.

That, or she's doing an extremely impressive job of hiding it. I thought I had a good read on most people, but she still seems okay. Initially she reacted about as well as I did, which isn't saying anything good, but she's forcing herself back into her old self. Smiling, talking absentmindedly, laughing.

That also makes me think she's handling it _worse_ than both of us thought.

There's no going back now. She killed Abigail, came back inside with us, and kept going. We don't have any other choice.

I'm still worried, though. But that's nothing new. I've been worried since the moment we got in here.

Speaking of Elora, she plops herself down on the floor next to me, stretching out her legs and laying her head back on one of my thighs, wiggling around until she's comfortable. She absentmindedly toys with the sickle on her belt. It's hard not to ignore the stain of red all across the blade from where she shoved it in someone's chest, but I have to deal with it. For her.

I took Abigail's bow and arrow, which felt more than wrong. It was hers. She should've taken it with her. But I spent almost the whole first day of training attempting to shoot these things and turned out to be not half bad at it. It could save my ass. Spens saw me eyeing it and slipped the bow off her shoulder, twisting her around in order to retrieve the quiver. He hadn't wanted to. I could see it in his eyes. He's doing everything for us, now.

"Hey," I say quietly down to Elora. She tilts her head back to look at me, smiling with tight lips.

We've all killed someone, now. Four people dead at our hands. We have an advantage that I can guarantee no one else in this arena has. We're three strong with seven left. But how much longer can we stay together?

I should've left a long time ago.

I lean my head back against the wall. I wouldn't have gotten through Estelle without them, I don't think. I might be dead without them completely. But it's getting to the point where watching them die might be harder than leaving them. We all see it, but I don't think any of us are going to say it outloud.

Spens stops his slow pacing and sits down cross-legged in front of me, laying his staff down across his lap and looking at both of us evenly, like he's preparing himself for a big speech. Elora holds up a finger towards him, closing her eyes.

"Don't," she whispers. "Just give me this."

He deflates the second she opens her mouth, leaning his chin down to rest in his hand. She reaches over, eyes still closed, and squeezes his knee.

This might be it. This might be the last moment of peace the three of us get. This might be the last time I look at either of them, quiet and relaxed, not blood-drenched and adrenaline-filled and doing anything to win.

It took me coming in here to realize that it might actually be better to have had something that's doomed to end than never having it at all. I always thought it was cheesy, before. Something that people say to romanticize their life and feel like it was better than the world was making it out to be. It's true, though. I could die. But I'll be mourned. I could win. I don't know how much of a chance I have, but I could. And I'll live for them. I'll live for everything that we've done.

Spens slides next to me and leans against the wall, shoulder pressed against mine. I think Elora's half-gone already, almost claimed by sleep.

She's right. Just give us this.

Give us this to make it feel like we're all still alive on the inside.

* * *

**Elora Farro — 17 years  
District Nine Female**

* * *

I wait until they're both asleep because I'm too cowardly to do it any other way.

Falling asleep on Kiero wasn't the best idea. I slowly lift my head, keeping it turned to watch his facial expression. He doesn't even move. Spens is slouched down a little more next to him, hood up and face buried in the front of his coat.

I love them. I really do. Ironic. We're all supposed to die in here, have nothing left, so of course one of the main things I get is love.

I make sure I have everything I need. I double-check the map, one last time, even though I've been doing it for a while now, and then shove it back into a side pouch in Kiero's bag. It's not mine to take. I never would, even if I wanted to.

When I stand up, I can't make myself leave. Typical. I just stand, silhouetted by the door, watching the two of them because I can't image not seeing them ever again. It's better this way. They'll have each other.

I don't want to win if they're dead. I know I have things to go back to, but if I do go back, all I'll ever feel is that I left them behind. Left them for dead. And it'll be my fault.

I'm not watching them die. I decided that a long time ago. I didn't realize then that leaving was the only option.

That's it. I'm leaving. I can't stand here any longer. I can't because I'm already trying to make myself sit back down and forget this idea ever happened.

I crack open the door and slip out, making sure it shuts silently behind me. When I lean back against the cool metal of the outside, I feel silent tears slipping down my face. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing a hand over my mouth. I'm supposed to be stronger than this. Those two assholes in there broke me. I think we all broke each other.

It's raining still. Hard. I pull up my hood and start running.

I don't know how long I have until they wake up, and they'll come after me when they do. I have a fast-fading image of the map in my head, but I know where I'm going. There's a small, narrow trench a little ways from here, lined with a few small bunkers. I'll hide out in one of them. There's even a few tunnels and hatches that'll lead into the bigger section if I have to get in one of them.

I can't let them find me, because then I'll break entirely and I'll never leave and by the time this thing ends there will be nothing of me left to bring back home.

The rain and wind whipping against my face slows my progression, but I've always been a quick runner. The lightning's subsided, a little. There's no more blood anywhere on me, not even my sickle. Not even my gun that I have half-emptied, shoving the bullets in Spens' backpack when he wasn't paying attention. They can do this, the two of them. I know they can.

They were always the strong ones. I was the one pretending.

Eventually I find the trench I'm looking for, slipping and sliding around the corner. I pick a bunker at random, prying open the door with shaking fingers until the door gives a tremendous creak and opens a foot or two. I slam it shut behind me, letting my eyes droop shut. I'm okay. I'm not crying anymore, I'm going to be okay. I point my flashlight around the room, squinting. There's a desk in the corner, and a broken metal chair in front of it. It's mostly empty, like most of them have been. I confirm that the hatch connecting to the tunnels is in the corner of the room, just like I saw on the map.

I'm alone for the first time. That's the most eerie part. I'd gotten use to the darkness. I haven't gotten use to the feeling of nothing being behind me but emptiness.

I'm in the middle of the room when the door creaks.

I freeze, barely daring to turn around. When I do, I slowly pull the gun out of my belt. My hands don't shake when I raise it. The door creaks again.

There's no way they came after me that quickly. Which means I'm in someone else. I could be in big trouble.

It opens a sliver. The pounding of the rain comes back,a shadow draped over the entrance-way. My finger hovers over the trigger. I can do this. I've killed someone. I can do it again.

For them. To get one of them home I will.

A head pokes in the door. I shoot.

It misses, slamming into the wall to the right of the figure and ricocheting off. I yelp and dive out of the way. The person I shot at throws themselves straight to the ground, swearing. It's only when I focus, ignoring the ringing in my ears, that I know.

"Quill?" I mutter, almost under my breath. The figure uncurls from the ball it's rolled itself into in the corner, staring right at me from under it's arm.

"You almost just shot me in the fucking head!" He yells. He uncurls further and kicks the door shut with his foot.

I start laughing.

I must sound deranged. The look Quill's giving me is certainly saying so. Normally calm, collected Quill almost just had a meltdown. I almost just killed him. Would have, if I hadn't hesitated the slightest bit. It wasn't even something I chose to do. Deep down I knew it was the wrong decision.

I wipe a hand across my face and all but jog across the room, throwing myself down next to him and wrapping my arms around his torso. He goes still for a moment, just as I expected, but he wraps his arms around me a moment later and that alone feels like victory.

"You're strangling me," he says quietly into my shoulder, but if I'm not mistaken he's holding on almost as tight. I have no idea what he's been through. Haven't seen him since the bloodbath. It feels good. He's more home than the rest.

I lean back on my heels, smiling softly. "Long time no see."

"No kidding," he scoffs, brushing his legs off and rising to his feet. He doesn't look great, but I doubt I do either. We're both soaking wet and freezing, bruised, with cuts leftover where blood had been before we entered the storm.

"Where are your boys?" He asks. My heart thumps painfully, fingers clenching before I can push back the reaction. Quill looks up from squeezing out his jacket.

"They're not dead. Where are they?"

"I left," I say quietly. "I couldn't .. I'd rather die. I want to."

It's not even close to a coherent sentence, but something in him understands. He wipes his hands off, sighing and shaking his head.

"Go back to them."

"No."

"Elora—"

"I'm not fucking going back to them! I'm not doing that to myself. Everything in here has hurt too much. I'm done feeling this. I'm done playing this fucking game."

Quill stares me silently. I've never been able to read him. It's more frustrating than I ever thought it could be. "You want to die?"

"I'd rather die than live with this."

He shrugs his backpack off almost violently and gestures to the door.

"What?"

"Leave, then. I'm not fucking killing you. If you think I am you're crazy."

We both stare at each other in silence, before he turns away and grabs the door handle, yanking hard. Nothing happens. It doesn't even budge. He freezes, not even looking back at me, and yanks again. He braces both of his feet against the floor. It still won't budge. Without hesitating he darts over to the hatch as he spots it over my shoulder, kneeling down and pulling at the handle. That's stuck too.

It's not on purpose.

"I don't think you have a choice," I whisper, and his hands pause where they're looked around the handle, quickly turning around until his eyes meet mine.

I see the realization dawn in his eyes. He realizes what's happening a few moments after I do.

We're locked in here. One of us isn't ever getting out.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

This is a fucking joke.

"This is a fucking joke," I repeat outloud, standing up and burying my face in my hands. I kick the wall with the tip of my boot. This isn't me. But this situation isn't either. I'm not designed for this. I'm not meant to make decisions like this.

It's the Gamemakers. The doors are ours to use until they decide they've had enough of our talking and laughing and happiness. They get to decide when we die. Everyone in here's on a timer, slowly ticking down.

"I'm not killing you," I tell Elora again. I won't look her in the eye.

Our food will only last us so long. We'll starve to death, if they even let us live that long. Knowing the Gamemakers they'll cave this place in and kill both of us before they watch that little show.

One of us has to die, only one of us, I don't want it to be me, _I can't fucking kill her—_

There's too many thoughts running through my head. This definitely isn't me, it never has been.

This is what they're doing to me.

"I want you to," Elora says softly, and when I finally look at her there are tears in her eyes.

"I'd rather you do it than anyone else," she continues, voice wavering.

She's a friend. I never realized that; thought I didn't need friends. And then I lost Arlo, and Abigail, and I thought they weren't worth it in the first place. I understand why Elora left when she did. It doesn't hurt as much, if you're the one to cut the ties.

Elora darts forward before I can even move and wraps her arms around me again. She's trembling, almost violently so, fingers tangling themselves in the back of my jacket. I can't un-glue my arms from my sides.

"You're not dying for me. You don't want to," she tells me. She's right. She always has been. "I said I'd rather die. If it has to be one of us I want it to be me. Let me have that. Let me choose this."

I can't breathe. This isn't happening. I still can't make myself move.

I thought I would be ready to kill, when the time came. And I think I would have been, if it hadn't been this. Anything but this.

The handle of something presses itself against my palm. I look down. Elora's got her hand wrapped lightly around the blade of her own sickle, holding the handle out towards me.

"Please," she begs, and it occurs to me that maybe I should say something instead of making her plead with every word she's letting out. Her voice is thick with tears, and the lump inside my throat grows bigger when I recognize it.

I wrap my hand around the sickle and she buries her face in my shoulder, tightening both of her arms around me. I wrap my free hand around her, hand curled around the back of her neck. My arm's still hanging by my side, frozen. I tighten my grip around the handle but still can't make myself raise my arm.

"Fuck," is the only thing that comes out when I lean my head on her shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut, and there's the waver in my voice that I never wanted to hear. The one that shows weakness and regret and every emotion that I never, ever wanted to feel in here.

"It's okay, it's okay," she says quickly, and I feel her nose brush against my throat, dripping wet hair sliding down my neck and into the collar of my jacket.

It's not okay. None of this has ever been okay.

I should've known that from the moment my pedestal locked into place.

I raise my arm up as quickly as I can without thinking, eyes squeezed shut, and bury the sickle between her shoulder-blades.

And I don't look. Not once.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut as I feel her body sag into my arms, against my chest, hear the thick, ugly sound as I rip the blade out of her skin and the clatter as it drops to the floor. Elora doesn't make a sound the whole time, and I never see her eyes slip shut because I still can't make myself look. I finally feel her body go completely limp, head lolling off my shoulder. I can't make myself drop her, either.

I drop to the floor, legs crushed awkwardly underneath me, still holding her body. There's nothing in me that wants to let go. I can't.

Another thing I should have realized sooner.

I lose everyone.

Elora's no exception.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

It's Kiero shaking my shoulder that wakes me up.

It's the exact same as two nights ago. He's hovering over me, arm outstretched. Elora's gone. There's a cannon. Only this time when he run outside, she's gone.

Within 30 seconds both of us have all of our supplies and weapons collected and we're running.

The rain's slowed. It doesn't make any sense. It's been the same since we got to the Final 8, relentless and unforgiving. But it's slowed, and I can still make out footprints in the mud that would have been washed away if it hadn't. It's that that makes a sick,terrible feeling rest in my stomach. Like they want us to find her, see whatever's at the end of these footprints.

Kiero's still ahead of me, like always, head looking down at the ground and feet moving on autopilot.

I almost lose sight of the footprints at Kiero's next turn but he only slows marginally, following them just as quick as before. There are bunkers in front of us. I stop, looking behind us and down the other end of the trench to make sure nothing else is there. We're good.

I look back down the trench, and Kiero's collapsed in front of a lone open door to one of the bunkers.

I know what it means, then, to feel your heart stop. To feel everything in you turn to ice and fire at the same time. It's like nothing else even exists.

I don't remember moving, or running towards him, barely remember almost crashing into him to stand in the doorway.

All I remember, all I'll ever see is Elora's body.

Kiero might have tried to say something but I can't hear anything but the roaring in my ears as I push through the doorway and drop down next to her. There's a slowly growing pool of blood seeping out from under her back. The sickest thing is it's like all of the dumb stories say - she really could be asleep if that wasn't there; eyes closed, head titled slightly to the side, limbs folded slightly awkwardly but carefully at the same time.

This isn't happening. I'm still asleep.

Out of the corner of my eye I just barely see Kiero haul himself up using the doorframe, still holding onto it with one hand when he makes it to his feet. I don't even know if he can make himself come in here.

It was never meant to happen like this. I was supposed to protect them, if I couldn't save myself in the end. All I've done is fail them, make them change who they are to survive, never get to them in time. I only get there in time to find the tail end of it. I guess I got lucky with Estelle and Abigail. I got there in time. They weren't all there but they were _alive._

I'm never in time to protect them like I wanted to.

Kiero's retreating footsteps break through the silence I keep hearing. For a second I think he's leaving, and there's a longer moment where I think it might be better if he does. I don't know how much longer he can keep failing.

My knees shake when I stand up. I force myself back outside. He's not retreating into the distance like I expected him to. He's crouched down not five feet away, just out of sight of the door. His legs must be straining to hold himself up in the slippery mud, chest bent over and touching his knees. I can't see his face. His head is tilted down, hands buried so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

"Who— _who the fuck—_"

"I don't know," I respond, voice so quiet he must be straining to hear it. My voice is thick. I know what he means, though. I don't know who did it. All I know is that she's dead, that she left for what feels like mere minutes and we weren't quick enough.

Kiero lets out a heave of a breath and jolts to his feet, shoving past me and through the doorway. He looks angrier, more horrified than I've ever seen him. Not even after Estelle did he look like that. I don't bother turning around. I know if I do something in me will snap. Seeing him with her body would almost write me off entirely.

I feel like I'm swaying back and forth, unsteady on my feet. I can't arrange my face into one single expression.

I should go back in there. I should sit with him. With both of them.

It takes me forever, or at least it feels like it. A part of my brain is saying that Kiero probably won't ever get back up if I don't go in there, but there's another part of me that's saying he's strong enough to on his own. It's me that needs him, not the other way around like I always thought.

If I lose him there's nothing left.

When I go inside I try to avoid looking as much as possible, but it's almost impossible not to. He's sitting at her side, head bowed so that his forehead's just barely brushing against her stomach, one of his hands locked around hers. They're both covered in her blood. If it weren't for the rise and fall of his chest I'd have thought he was frozen like that.

Lowering myself slowly down beside him, I dip my head between my knees because it's the only thing I can think of doing. I can't look at this. Can't look at another thing I haven't managed to save.

Kiero's free hand digs into my shoulder after a few moments, like it took him a bit to start operating again.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, pushing back the lump in my throat. He doesn't respond, but I think he knows. He's holding himself as much accountable as I am.

"We have to do this. For her."

His voice has no right to be that calm, that eerily level-headed. I look up at him and he's all but staring down blankly at her, and I can see the tears in his eyes that he still won't let out. Maybe if he cried I'd finally let myself break down too. His eyes move slowly to me, and he swallows hard, but he nods, like he's reassuring himself that he can do this.

I always knew he was the leader, even when it never seemed like it. I thought it was Elora holding us together, but it was him too.

I just followed along and hoped I could save them when the time came.

The only job I had and I couldn't even do it.

* * *

**7th. Elora Farro, District Nine Female.**

* * *

So. This was absolutely terrible to write. If I don't make at least one person cry with this chapter than it may not even have been worth writing. You know what? You can just pretend this was a dream sequence. Ignore it. Honestly, it's better if you blur this out of your mind entirely.

Though, if someone goes into cardiac arrest with the next chapter, well. Don't say I didn't at least prepare you.

Until next time.


	33. Destroya

Arena, Night Twelve.

* * *

**Camilla Harthgrove — 18 years  
District One Female**

* * *

Royal wanted me to trust Hariwin.

I thought I did. There's still a part of me that does. And then I saw him pick up a knife last night, casual as can be, and a spike of fear lodged itself in my heart. He hadn't meant to scare me. I don't even think that thought crossed his mind. But the two other times he's killed he's done it without remorse and I keep wondering if I could be the third.

There's six of us left. And that's the worst part. Not five minutes ago one of the Six guy's allies appeared in the sky and Hariwin had grinned like he won the damn lottery.

What's stopping him from being the same with me?

I sit by, quiet and thinking, as he lays down and readies himself for sleep. He turns onto his sides, tucks his ripped gloved-covered hands under his arms, and is out within a minute. That's the thing. He's not scared. He doesn't think there's any reason to be. He'll be unstoppable.

It's really coming down to me to do this.

I pull a knife slowly out of my belt, toying with it with both hands. No matter who he is he won't let me win over him, sob story be damned. We're Careers. That's all we really are, when it boils down to it.

I rise to my feet slowly and stop, waiting a moment. He doesn't move. I take a step forward. Still nothing.

If I really do this, there's no going back. But if I do, I could win. That's all that matters here. Bringing myself one step closer to victory.

Not even a foot away from him I crouch down. The rise and fall of his chest is deep and even. My fingers are white-knuckled around the knife, but it's easier this way.

_I promise it's easier. I'm sorry._

And then just as I move to slit his throat, his hand locks around my wrist.

The scary part is his eyes don't even open, but the smile on his face is wry, his body gone from asleep - no, he was never asleep - to alert in less than a second.

"Stupid, but not stupid enough to fall for that, One."

I lunge back, scrambling to my feet when he opens his eyes. He regards me, still lying on the ground. I could throw a knife. It might kill him. Might isn't good enough.

When he hauls himself to his feet it's leisurely, care-free. He stretches his arms, snagging his axe off the ground. I swallow.

"I at least thought you were gonna look me in the eye and try it. This is a new low, even for us."

All this talk of betrayal, all this talk of back-stabbing and I still wasn't ready for it. I wasn't ready for him to stand up and fight back. It makes sense, the bruises under his eyes. He probably hasn't been sleeping at all. This whole time, Hariwin was waiting for it.

He trusted me, in some weird ways, but he always knew. And I did too.

We always knew it would come to this.

"So," Hariwin starts. "How are we doing this?"

I throw a knife at his head.

He sees it coming from a mile away and ducks out of the way, making it look effortless.

"You know, I didn't want to kill you," he says earnestly. "Why are you doing this?"

"I want to go home."

"And I'm in the way?"

I stare at him silently, a knife gripped in each hand. He's always been in my way. At first it was annoying, something I had to deal with on a daily basis. Now it just feels like a burden that's going to be dumped on my shoulders the second I finish the job.

"Well, you're in my way. Tough shit."

Hariwin dives straight towards me, reaching his arm down to snag his sword as well just before he appears directly in front of me. I leap backwards, tucking myself into a roll before grabbing my own sword. I can't defend with knives. It's not enough.

His sword meets mine with a screech of steel on steel, his eyes inches from my own before he pushes me back, sending me sprawling into the mud. I'm far enough away that I can scramble to my feet, dodging the swipe he aims at my legs. I dodge again, darting across the opposite end of the trench. At the last second I kick a crate in his direction, sending the wood splintering across his feet. The smile on his face is unbelievable.

"Really?" He asks disbelievingly. "This is how you're fighting?"

It's exactly how Astrid sounded before she tried to fight Spens. Before she died trying.

I don't have time for his taunts.

I stab forwards with the sword, set on driving him back. The step he takes is minuscule compared to the ones I've been making, but his eyes are set on the sword in my hand. I turn, diving forwards with the knife. He notices, barely, swinging himself out of the way so my knife slashes along his shoulder, cutting open his coat instead of burying itself in the muscle.

He barely notices. He doesn't even flinch.

He does snarl something under his breath, but his eyes are telling a different story. I never thought I'd see the day where Hariwin wouldn't kill someone just because he felt like he shouldn't.

Hariwin stops, clenches his fists tighter around the weapons in his grip. I stare back.

I can't fix this. It was too broken to begin with.

I abandon all tactics. They're all conventional. He never was.

I run straight for him. I know I can't take him down. Sure enough, one of his hands locks around my wrist the second I get close, his axe abandoned in the mud. He practically swings me around him, my feet skimming the ground, and he's so focused on keeping me away that when I stab one of my knives towards his face it slashes open the skin on his cheek, blood dripping down and landing on my hand. He releases me, the force sending me spinning into the nearest wall. _There's_ the rage. _There's_ the murderous glint in his eyes.

But he still won't move.

"What, you scared now?" I ask him. "How's it feel?"

I push myself away from the trench wall, striding in front of him. Still nothing but the glint in his eyes. And then he takes a step back.

All of the spinning thoughts in my head grind to a halt, but I refuse to lessen my grip on my weapons. He stares evenly at me.

"You know how many people have tried turning me into a monster? A lot more than you know. So get the fuck in line, princess."

That's all it comes down to, for him. Whether or not to cross the line, whether he should be bigger than he knows and change or be the person everyone expects him to be, _wants_ him to be. And that's the ultimate betrayal, for him. Everyone's only ever seen the monster, not what was underneath. I think he hoped I was different. I thought I was. I wasn't this person, coming in here. Didn't taunt or turn against people or try to murder someone in their sleep when all they ever tried to do was trust me.

The smallest amount of tension leaks out of my shoulders. Maybe I'm more of the monster than he ever was. He's killed two people, but so did I. I killed the youngest person left alive in this arena. So what's the bigger of the two evils?

When I really look at him, for the first time since I threw that knife, I see that the glint in his eyes isn't rage. It's an apology.

And then he plunges the sword into my chest.

* * *

**Hariwin Saylor — 17 years**  
**District Four Male**

* * *

The look on Camilla's face is going to haunt me.

The look in her eyes, too. They switch from agony to confusion to horror, staring down at the sword embedded in her chest, my other hand locked into the back of her jacket to keep her there. Her eyes flicker back up to me, in the last second she's there, and the terror in them consumes everything else I thought I had seen.

I let her body drop to the ground. The sword goes with her. It was quick. Her eyes are glazed over, staring sightlessly past me, rain landing lightly on her face.

She never saw it coming, and maybe it was better that way. She dropped her guard, let herself think for a moment too long. She didn't even see me move. The only thing that snapped her out of it was realizing what I had done.

None of it matters. All of the decisions I've made have been my own.

No one has control over me, gets to mold me into whatever they want. This is my Games, my victory. No one else is going to get in the way of it.

Let everyone hate me. Everyone in the Capitol, everyone in One, and all of the other Districts.

The most freeing realization is that I don't care what they think, because none of them matter. Not in here.

When I win, they won't have the chance to look away. I'll be all that's left.

I rip my sword out of her chest, backing up a few paces to snatch my axe off the ground. I leave my backpack lying at the trenches edge, discarded. I won't need it. This ends tonight. It'll only weigh me down. On a last whim, I lean down, slipping one of the knives out of Camilla's belt. I tuck it into my jacket.

Let her, let none of them be forgotten. They were all there, all in my way, and they're almost all gone.

I keep the sword into my hand and remove the gun from my jacket, testing it's weight in my other hand. I've never used it. I've never had to. But tonight, I'll empty every bullet if I have to. It's time to leave, to toss away everything else.

My first destination is back to the Cornucopia. Nothing's there, not that I'm surprised, except for a few mutts lingering around the bunker. They're all dead within seconds, the brown-black blood staining the edges of my sword. There's nothing here I want, anyway, but I figured it would be best to check.

Next stop; civilization. Or at least the closest thing there is to it. The first row of small bunkers I find is empty. I make sure of that by kicking every door down, ripping shelves off the wall and tipping desks over to make sure no one's hiding. There's no use in hiding now, not when we're this close.

It's not until I get to the next section that I hear voices, faint, wavering, barely carrying towards me over the sound of the wind.

I pause, eyes narrowed, and pace back until I'm flattened against the nearest metal wall. I creep forwards, sliding along it until I'm the slightest bit closer, trying to block out the pattering of the rain all around me. I think we've all been herded closer together. This really is it. This could be the finale. I take another single, careful step closer, crouching down as close to the door as I'll dare to get. A few of the buttons on my jacket slide back against the wall, barely there above the rest of the noise.

And then I hear the voices, almost as if they're clear as day, as if I'm standing across the room for them. As if this was meant to happen.

It was, really. Ever since the bloodbath.

It's a shame they waited this long. But it'll be a show nonetheless. A battle worthy of watching.

I smile, letting my eyes close for a second, relishing in the last few seconds of stillness I'll have before I rip Spens Scrymgeour's still beating heart of his fucking chest.

* * *

**Spens Scrymgeour — 18 years  
District Six Male**

* * *

We spend hours in that damn bunker.

I think it's because there's really no point in moving. At least not now. Kiero said we had to do something, and we do, we _will,_ but not right now. There's not much left in us that has the motivation to move.

Until now.

I saw a shadow outside, just out of reach of the door. Kiero's been so still and so quiet for so long that I don't say anything, instead getting slowly to my feet, leaning down at the last second to press a hand over his mouth when he looks up at me. I press a finger against my lips. He nods, just barely, and rises to his feet behind me, taking his sword in hand. I ignore Elora's blood, dried on his hands. It's not worth looking at.

I take a single step towards the door.

And then Hariwin Saylor steps in front of it, not five feet away from me.

He smiles. I leap towards the door.

I barely make it, fingers catching the edge just hard enough to send it slamming shut. He starts for it just as it clangs back into it's frame. He kicks at it, nearly opening it up immediately, until I set my weight against it and push hard enough to keep it shut. Kiero's at my side instantly, sliding the massive, awkward deadbolt across the threshold. Hariwin doesn't stop.

"Come on out, asshole!" He yells, sounding positively thrilled. "They won't let you stay in there forever!"

He kicks at the door again. This time there's the slightest bit of movement, the middle of the door caving in under his weight. It should be impossible to be that strong, to do that kind of damage, but he's doing it. I lean back against the door, even though he won't make it in. Not for a few minutes. We have that. I lean my forehead against it, ignoring his increasingly enraged kicks from the outside.

Kiero's talking. I'm only making some of it out.

"Spens, just listen to me, hey? We can do this, we can get out—"

"You need to go."

Kiero freezes. "What?"

"_You need to go_. Through the tunnels. You have the map—"

"You're not fighting him, Spens."

"They won't let both of us go. They've been _waiting_ for this," I insist, and it feels like something's ripping my heart apart from the inside. "If we both go, something'll happen, to both of us or one of us and I'm not watching you die, not because of me."

He stares back at me in silence, and I see the fear leeching into his eyes.

"So you want me to let you die? To run, because now I'm a fucking coward? It doesn't work one way and not the other. You don't get to decide that."

I push my hands harder against the door at the next movement, squeezing my eyes shut. I'm not letting him die, not like this, not in front of me, preferably not _ever_ if I have control of that. If I have anything left to decide it has to be this.

I step back from the door and stride towards the hatch. Around Elora's body. Around another of my failures. I kneel down and yank it open, staring down the ladder into the darkness. The door moves again. Kiero flinches. It's basically a staredown, me and him, on opposite sides of the room.

The door caves in a little bit further.

"Do you remember what Elora said, this morning?" I ask him, and god, it doesn't feel like this morning. It feels like years have passed. "She said to let her have this. To have one of the last things she could imagine wanting. This is mine. This is what I want."

Kiero stares down at the hatch and then snaps his gaze back up to my face. It might be the odd lighting, the shadows bouncing off the walls, but I think his eyes are wet.

"Kiero," I whisper. "Please go."

For a brief, terrifying moment, I think he's going to refuse, and once he gets something firm in his mind he never backs out of it. He steps forward and wraps his arm around me instead, startling me for a brief moment, feeling his filthy nails dig into the backs of my shoulders, the general shakiness. I hug him back as best I can, when all I can hear is the sound of the door's hinges squealing, hear the noise of everything we had falling apart at once.

This is finality. This is what it really feels like.

Kiero steps back, refusing to look me in the eye, and lowers himself down the hatch, his feet on a rung a few pegs down. I grab his shoulder to steady him, staring down into the darkness.

"I'll find you when it's over."

He does look back up at me, then, eyes shining. He knows I'm lying, but it could be all we have left.

"You better."

I laugh, under my breath and it sounds foreign to my ears, like this last bit of happiness shouldn't even be allowed. He keeps looking up at me, smiling and nodding frantically, hands shaking against the top rung.

I wish he would cry, but I've wished for a lot of things that I never got. That I'll probably never get.

He takes a few steps down.

I slam the hatch shut above him.

The door comes crashing in.

I barely move, at first. The door swings off its hinges, barely hanging on, half-slamming against the floor. Hariwin's looming in the doorway, shadow stretched long across the metal ground. He twirls an axe in his hand, looking down at it absentmindedly, and then looks back up at me, cocking his head.

"Y'know, I would say you don't know how long I've been waiting for this," he says simply, a smile creeping across his face. "But I think you do."

Has he always been like this, waiting for this exact moment? How long has he been driven by revenge?

"No famous last words?" He asks. "Not even gonna pick up a weapon?"

My staff is hanging heavy and reassuring across my back. I can feel the gun in my belt, hidden out of sight behind my jacket. But I learned a long time ago that making the first move never gets you anywhere.

That's the whole reason we're here.

I give myself one more second. Kiero should be at the bottom of the ladder and moving by now. I don't even bother taking out a weapon. I just run, straight at him, kicking in his instinctual reaction to get out of the way at all costs, and by the time he's realized what I'm doing, I'm out the door and putting as much distance between us as I can.

I can hear him giving chase instantly, but I have a head start. It's not much, but it'll buy me a few more seconds to think of something other than attack and hope for the best. It's becoming increasingly evident, though, the longer I run, that I might not have a choice.

The trench begins sloping up. I run faster. Soon enough, I'm on higher ground, looking over my shoulder for a mere second to judge the distance. He's maybe twenty feet behind me at most, but he looks pissed as all hell, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was fueling him faster. We won't be able to go forever. I shrug my backpack off and leave it in my wake, noting that he never had his. He was ready for this.

I look over my shoulder again just in time to see him rip a gun out of his belt. He's close enough that he won't miss, even if it doesn't hit something vital.

Guess we're doing this then.

I slide to a halt, leaning down and digging one of my hands into the muddy ground to slow myself. There's no point in looking to see where he is, so I yank the staff off my back, turn around, and run back towards him as quickly as I manage.

He's not prepared for that, either. I think they taught him that his brute force would be enough and not much else.

I crack the staff into his forearm, swearing I hear something snap, and watch the gun go flying out of his grip.

The murder bleeds into his eyes like I've always seen it do. He readies his other hand, tight around the axe, and grabs his sword in his other hand. Maybe his arm's not cracked, or broken, or maybe he just doesn't care. Maybe he's never felt things like pain. Pain stops you. He won't stop, not for anything.

He slashes at me with the sword, the metal tearing into the wooden edge of my staff as I bring it across my body to block the blow. He's strong. The staff inches towards my face as he continues pushing, features twisting in rage. He swings his other arm, bringing around the axe, and I swivel out of the way, bringing him with me when the sword refuses to budge out of my own weapon.

I rip my staff free, anchoring both hands around it, and swing at his head. He ducks under it, aiming a swipe at my legs. The axe misses by a mile but I feel the tip of the sword just barely graze against my thigh, tearing the fabric open and sending a few drops of blood beading down my leg.

I need to get one of them away from him, or I'm done for. The offensive might be my only choice.

I swing towards his legs, again at his head, again, again, so many times that he begins to take a few steps back. He tries to fight back, once, until the blade of the axe cracks into the staff and I nearly take it out of his hand. I just need him to try again.

The sword, this time, flying towards my head. I feel the blade cut through the air above me as I duck. This isn't working.

I keep the staff tucked close to my side and slam into his stomach. Even with my force I don't think he would've normally gone down but he lets it happen, instantly flipping me off of him and throwing me a solid few feet away. I ignore the breath being driven out of my body, slamming the staff down towards his legs. Hariwin scrambles backwards, and then again, rolling completely to the side and almost straight down into a trench as he avoids the next blow. It looks like he's going to start screaming soon.

He moves a little too slow, _finally_, the slope of the ground uneven and rough, and this time I definitely hear the crack of his wrist under my staff, diving towards him to rip the sword out of his hand. He lets it go easier than I expected, and then his other fist slams into the side of my face. The crack this time is definitely not him, because I'm pretty sure it's my nose. There's a fountain of blood washing into my mouth. He makes a grab for my head. The sharpened, metal point of the staff catches him in the cheek, and then his jaw. He swears, tangling a hand in my jacket. It takes him all of one second to drag us both up to our feet before he punches me again, so hard my eyes blur and knocks me straight back to the ground. The spinning in my head is too bad to ignore, this time, and he's dragging me up again, driving his knee straight into my ribs, and I admit that I might finally be fucked.

The next time I land on the ground, my shoulder knocks into something hard. Through the blood dripping into my eyes, across all of my face, I see Hariwin's discarded gun, almost buried in the mud underneath me. I grab it, just before he's pulling me up again, twist the slightest bit in his grip, and pull the trigger.

He yells and drops me, and I roll over just in time to see red blossoming across his shoulder. Hariwin all but snarls, flipping the axe in his grip and I roll backwards, trying to give myself a few feet to move. My head spins. I raise my arm, firing again. It buries itself in his thigh. He doesn't stop moving. It's like he's not human. He can't be human.

His boot slams into my ribs before I can manage to get up, and a lightning strike of pain drives through my side and into my chest. I'm gasping for breath, but every time I try it hurts even more. He's smiling now, not even feeling his own wounds. He stomps on my hand, my fingers releasing the gun into the dirt again. Another kick. There's no way my ribs aren't broken. I'd be surprised if I could even stand.

And then the lightning strikes, just behind us, and I see the hot flash of light bounce off the blade of his axe before he buries it in my stomach.

I've felt all kinds of agony, and I'm still not prepared for it. It wasn't as deep as it could have been, but I still see a solid few inches of the axe _disappear_ into my stomach. The smile on his face is eerie. I can't think of anything but the pain. It takes everything in me just to curl up on the ground, hands clutching at my stomach just after he rips the axe out of it. Blood goes flying into the air.

I shouldn't be alive. But I think he did it on purpose. He wants to make it as painful as possible.

Somehow, in some impossible way, I push myself up on one hand, the other one all but trying to keep my insides_ in_. My knees shake horribly when I lean up on them. I can't get any further than that, not right now. I'm kneeling a few feet in front of him, barely able to keep my head up. He has the axe raised over his shoulder shoulder. I can imagine the perfect arc it'll make when he takes my head off.

There's a knife in his boot, the hilt just peeking out of the top of it. I don't know if I have the strength to grab it, let alone stand up and kill him. I have to. I have to kill him. If I don't this was all for nothing, finding Elora's body was for nothing, watching all of the horrible things we've done won't mean anything. In the end, it'll all have been futile.

And then I look up, eyes blurry, and see Kiero standing not twenty feet behind the pair of us. Everything in me starts screaming. Hariwin will kill me, and then him, and then he'll win, and he can't.

I said I'd come back for him, when it was over, but we both knew I was lying. He took matters into his own hands. He came back for me.

The barely-there, agonized smile I give him is bloody. At least I'm going knowing it was worth it. Dying in here was better than living out there.

Kiero takes the bow off his back, notches an arrow. My brain feels muddled. I don't know what's happening. Maybe it's the pain. It hurts more than I thought it would. He raises his weapon. I still don't realize what he's doing until an arrow buries itself in the middle of Hariwin's back, just over his spine.

If I didn't see it coming, Hariwin definitely didn't.

The force of the arrow barely moves him, but it buried itself deep. He pitches forward after a moment, swaying violently, but he's still not falling. My gaze flickers back to the knife in his boot. And then in one swift motion, I rip it out, noting the way his eyes try to follow my movements even through the agony written across his face, rise up on unsteady feet, and force the knife into his chest.

It's messy, and ugly, and in no way perfect. I have to hold onto him just to keep myself up, but I keep my grip on the knife until I'm sure it's buried into the hilt. I have no idea if it hit his heart, but it's enough. There's blood dripping out of his mouth, coating the front of his shirt. His eyes aren't even scared. They're filled with disbelief, a horror that's more surprise than agony as I make myself look him in the eye.

The second he goes the slightest bit slack in my grip I push him backwards as hard I can manage in this state, watching as his body crumbles like a ragdoll off a shelf. He hits the ground hard, head titled at an awkward angle, blood running like a river out of his mouth onto the ground below.

Hariwin Saylor's eyes glaze over, one hand wrapped weak around the knife in his chest, the broken arrow crushed under his back. Dead.

_Boom._

My eyes fog again, world tilting dangerously. One of my hands is clutching at my stomach, the other dangling limply by my side. It feels like it was my cannon, not his.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind I recognize Kiero's eyes widening, see his eyes land on the ruined mess that is my abdomen, see the crushing realization come across his face when he realizes he wasn't quick enough. I know what that feels like. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

He starts running towards me. He might be yelling. My knees give out, but I barely feel the ground when I land.

Everything's gone.

* * *

**6th. Camilla Harthgrove, District One Female.  
5th. Hariwin Saylor, District Four Male.**

* * *

A summary of me writing this chapter: oh no.

I can't even think of an appropriate or comprehensible A/N right now, to be completely honest.

I'm sorry babies.

Until next time.


	34. Forget The World

Arena, Midnight, Day Thirteen.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels — 17 years**  
**District Four Male**

* * *

Seeing Camilla is one thing.

The second I left her with Hariwin, I expected it. But after a while, neither of their faces appearing in the sky, I thought they had reached acceptance. Friendship, perhaps, or maybe just a trust that I would never be able to understand.

When her face finally appears in the sky, it's a shock. Hariwin had to be one of the only people left in here strong enough to kill her; if he's out there and he just killed her, there's nothing that's going to stop him from doing the same thing to me.

And then maybe an hour later, maybe more or less, his face appears, almost obscured by the rain.

I lock myself in a bunker, back plastered against the door, trying to calm the racing of my heart.

There are too many options. Camilla injured him bad enough that it took him a while to die. I doubt it. Mutts got him. I doubt that even more. Which means that either Quill or the other two left got him. Spens could've killed him. I'll never forget the look in Hariwin's eyes after Astrid died, how he looked like he'd rip the whole arena apart to get him. I think it finally happened, and the outcome was something I never expected.

Hariwin's dead. Which means I'm the only Career left alive in this arena.

The next time I inhale it's like I'm a new person - the air is cool and fresh, not musty or tainted with the scent of rain. Three more people in front of me, all of whom never trained as long as I did, never prepared for it like this. I can't underestimate them, though. As much as I'm ready for this, they've done the same things to get here that I have. They all have to be killers, by now. I have no clear advantage but knowing how to use the weapon in my hand the slightest bit better.

And maybe, just maybe, a sense of urgency to win. To get back home. For everyone there, but for the people I lost in here. For the girls, who I should've stepped in and protected better. Helped them, even though they were always stronger than me. They didn't need protecting, but I might feel better about myself if I had tried.

For Abbie. Because if I die there was no point to my actions. Everything that I put her through, everything I watched her do. None of it will matter.

I want to know who killed her. Part of me feels like putting a knife in the heart of whoever did it will help. It's a scary thought. Never in my life did I think I would turn out to be exactly like everyone else; thinking of revenge and cold-blooded killing because it might make the world right.

I don't think the world matters much, in here. This is all we're supposed to know.

Going home won't ever feel the same. My Mom will hug me and cry and tell me it's alright, that I did a good job. It'll be a lie. Genivieve won't ever let go. Caspian will pat me on the back and smile like an idiot. And the one kid from Four nobody expected to come back out of all of us will have won.

There will always be that feeling inside me that I'm a terrible person. But living for everyone else doesn't seem like too bad of a life.

Make the world better, like Sheridan would have wanted. Prove them all wrong, like Astrid. Finally understand why Camilla and Hariwin had their particular anger against living a normal life. Make Amara breaking the mold something that isn't uncommon.

To show whatever's left of Abbie in this world that it's not all bad.

To do everything they would have wanted, all I have to do is become the exact opposite of anything I ever wanted to be.

The thing is, it doesn't seem so foreign a possibility anymore. I've already done unspeakable things. A few more shouldn't make a difference.

I just wonder how much I'll hate myself when it's all over.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years  
District Nine Male**

* * *

The thought process of a monster is a funny thing.

Though, that's implying I'm a monster, and I still don't know if I've come to terms with calling myself that.

I can't keep my hands still, so there's that. Or my mind, or the churning feeling in my gut that I'm almost in the Final 3 and everyone in it will kill me if they have to.

Ross will because it's what he trained to do. And whoever out of Elora's alliance makes it there will kill me the second they realize I'm the one who killed her. It makes me feel a bit better, the slightest bit better, having her sickle with me. At first it felt wrong, robbing her body of it, but she wasn't going to use it, and it's the closest thing to home I have since she died.

I don't want the rain to wash off the blood. I don't want to forget what I did. It's not right, and it's not fair to her, and if I forget about it then maybe I really would turn into a monster.

I don't think I'm a monster, but what's even worse is that I don't know who I am anymore.

Every single thing I thought I was has been flipped upside down. I'm not as closed-off as I believed, or as cold, or as prone to push people away for my own good. I've been dong it all along for the sake of appearing stronger, and I think I might've made it worse.

The rain's kind of tapering off. I still have to blink frantically every few seconds to see. Every noise is setting me on edge, making me wonder who could be behind me ready to stab me in the back.

"Get it together," I whisper under my breath, and somehow talking to myself doesn't seem all that bad when I look back at the past two weeks.

I just want to go home.

This whole time, home as seemed like a foreign idea. Like I was never there and I was just raised to be in here. I was in all technicality the perfect specimen before now - I thought I was cold, hardened enough to kill someone and not care.

And then Arlo happened, and Abigail happened, and Elora put the nail in coffin.

I'm not who I was. I probably never will be again. Maybe I never was.

That doesn't mean I can't still go home and find room in me to accept it.

I tighten my grip on the sickle and drop my backpack on the ground. The gun's still in my belt, exactly where it's been the whole time. I still have the machete. I don't think anything else is necessary, really.

All that's left is the fight. The fighting itself is optional, but right now, surviving isn't.

I have to.

This new person that the Games built - it's something I don't recognize.

I don't mind it, though. If I can go home, maybe I can stop criticizing myself, stop tiptoeing around people to avoid confrontation and drama and things that hurt other people more than it's ever hurt me.

Hurting's a good thing, I realize. It makes me realize how alive I am.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

I was too late.

I know the second that Spens' legs crumple beneath him that he's a goner.

Until that moment, watching it slow-motion, I had no idea how bad it would hurt, realizing that you failed the last person you ever wanted to. That they did this for you and you still couldn't even save them.

Nothing matters in here, except how willing you are to kill. No one here is meant to be saved but yourself.

I skid over to him as fast as my legs will carry me, dropping to my knees besides him. He _looks_ dead. I would think he was, but the cannon went off before he fell and there hasn't been another. He's not dead, even as I watch the skin across his ruined stomach pull with every barely-there breath he takes.

He's not dead, but I don't know how long he has.

I put a hand on his shoulder, barely exerting any pressure.

"Spens," I say quietly, hesitantly. What if he doesn't wake up? What if he slips off and I'm just sitting here when he does?

I don't know how badly he's hurt. His entire face is covered in blood, his leg's bleeding, his stomach's a mess, and I'm pretty sure I can tell his nose is broken just by looking at it. His staff is laying a few feet away, discarded.

Everything in my brain is screaming. It's so cold I'm shaking, no matter how much the rain lets up.

_He did this for you. He's dying because of you._

I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my hand on his shoulder.

His shoulder shifts the slightest bit underneath my fingers, and in my half-hunched position over him I see his eyelids flutter. He's not dead. Not yet.

"Spens," I repeat, scooting the slightest bit closer. "Come on, come _on_."

When he opens his eyes I barely breathe, like I'm going to shatter the moment and it won't even be real. He's silent, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady. He winces every time he tries to breathe.

"Hi," is what he finally settles on, barely audible. He squeezes his eyes shit, face tight with agony. Instantly I'm reaching for the edges of my jacket, dead-set on stopping whatever bleeding I can, only for him to reach up and grab my arm, quicker and more forceful than I thought he was capable of.

"Don't," he whispers. "Just—"

"Stop," I say suddenly. "Don't - you don't get to talk like that, fucking don't."

"You're not stupid. I'm dying. You know I am."

I fall silent. He drops my hand, letting his own fall limply into the mud. He can barely keep his head up to look at me.

"You were always the strong one," Spens starts. His voice is faint. "You didn't know it. Hell, I didn't know it. But I trusted you. From the beginning. And you can do it, I know you can."

I inhale shakily. It feels like I'm nearing panic, the impending loneliness already creeping up. He's dying. I'm going to be alone. I wasn't supposed to be the last one.

Spens grabs my hand, barely able to hold on, and he smiles. It's nothing but blood.

"You _can_ do it," he repeats. "You've always had it in you. You can go home. Live a happy life."

"It's my fault—"

"It's not. There are worse ways to go. You're okay. That's all that matters," he tells me, and I can do nothing but shake my head. He's always mattered. They both have, him and Elora. My survival isn't the only important thing that's happened.

Something like a sob rises in my throat. I force it back down, squeezing my eyes shut again when I feel his hand tighten around mine. He doesn't even look scared. The longer I look at him the more it hurts. I shuffle closer the last inch or two and lean down until I can rest my head on his shoulder. It's easier not to look.

I can hear every wheezing, quiet breath he's taking. I'd be surprised if both his lungs are still intact.

He's suffering. He's suffering and I still don't have it in me, wouldn't have it in me for the next 100 years, to kill him.

I'm squeezing his hand so tight I'm probably cutting off his circulation. I doubt it's helping the situation, but he hasn't complained. Even if he had, I don't think I'd have it in me to let go.

I don't know how much longer we have.

"Spens, can you do something for me?" I start, my voice shaking. "Tell Elora I love her. And that I'm sorry."

It takes him a moment to respond. In the first second of silence, after another, I almost think he's already gone.

"Do something for me?" He says faintly. "Don't spend the rest of your life being sorry. She wasn't. And I'm not."

I don't even trust myself to nod. Spens trails off into silence.

I'm just waiting. I don't know how long I'll have to sit here. All I know right now is that I'm not leaving him.

The rain stops.

I go as still as possible. The silence is almost deafening. It's never been this quiet.

I don't even notice his breathing stop.

For a brief moment I think the silence is so startling that me not hearing it is a mistake. And then I realize that the faint rise and fall of his shoulder underneath my head is gone. His hand is limp in mine.

Spens is dead.

Finally, finally, a sob rips its way free of my chest, practically forcing itself out.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry, _fuck_."

He's gone. It doesn't matter. I didn't change anything.

Without the thunder, or the rain, or the crash of lightning all around us, the cannon is impossibly loud. It's like everything around me shakes. I sit up, practically swaying, and drop his hand, burying my face in my own. How can I win, when I'm blaming myself for everything that's happened? How can I when all I can feel is crushing abandonment?

_For them_, something whispers, in the back of my mind.

For them. For _myself_.

If I die it means nothing. Everyone will forget about them, eventually, and then me, and we'll have mattered just as much as the next dead teenager they forced into an arena.

By some form of a miracle, I'm the one left standing. They'd fight for it. So I have to.

I make myself stand. My legs shake so bad when I finally force myself up it's a miracle I don't fall right back to the ground. My whole body's numb, and stiff, and my hands are covered in blood. With no rain to wash it away it's drying there.

Spens was right, though. I'm okay. Not perfect, not even close. But I'm okay. That has to be enough.

I check everything I still have on me. Backpack, sword, gun. The bow is still hanging across my back, along with the arrows in their quiver. It's more than enough. But when I look down at him, eyes closed, staff lying half-hidden in the mud a mere foot away, I can't make myself leave it there.

It's easy, to shove the staff through some of the loops on my backpack. It should be heavy, but when it's finally situated it feels like it's not even there. Like I'm supposed to have it.

Maybe I am. Maybe I_ was_ supposed to be the last one standing.

There's a hovercraft in the distance. I look back down at him, one last time.

And then I make myself turn, start walking, and go off to war.

* * *

**4th. Spens Scrymgeour, District Six Male.**

* * *

Number of people who got the Final 3 right: 0

I pretty much just have this left to say: I'm proud of all of these babies, every single one. No matter where I took them, or when I killed them, they'll always be my original SYOTs babies, and I'm thankful for everyone letting me test my amateur writing experience on them. :') Next chapter there will only be one left, and it's hard, it always has been, but I can only hope people are happy with where it goes.

So. Who do you think is going to be the victor? Who do you want to be the victor? Note: if none of you pick the actual victor, I'm just going to feel bad.

Until next time.


	35. Light Up The Sky

Arena, Daybreak, Day Thirteen.

* * *

**Quill Grove — 17 years**  
**District Nine Male**

* * *

I've already found someone.

I knew it wouldn't take long, not after the last cannon. Which means it's me and Ross. The last person, I don't know. Spens makes the most logical sense. But Kiero could still be alive. All I know is whoever I just found probably won't be good news.

It's the Final 3. This is the finale. In a few minutes, I could be dead.

I don't have anything to throw. I have Elora's sickle, and a knife long enough to be a machete. A flashlight, just in case. Not much else.

I take a deep breath. Please, don't be Ross. Don't be Ross.

I turn the corner.

It's Kiero.

My brain shuts down almost immediately. I knew it was a possibility, but somehow seeing him makes it infinitely more real. The only thing is, he looks like he's been through hell and back in a matter of hours. He has. Elora ... Elora hasn't even been gone a day. And judging by the last cannon, by Spens' staff hanging across his back, he lost him not too long ago.

"Kiero," I say quickly, trying to feign some sort of closeness. I don't know him; all I know is that Elora trusted him and that might give me enough reason to. Neither of us will beat Ross on our own, not unless we get lucky. It'll be a miracle if either of us walk out of here entirely. I have to do everything I can to make the path easier.

"You know we won't beat him on our own," I state. Might as well get right to it. He stares at me evenly, unflinching. I don't know him, but I do know that he's a far cry from the kid who get reaped. We both are.

"Just listen to me, hey?" I plead. "If we work together, just for this, one of us will go home. Don't tell me you don't want that."

It takes me a second to realize that while I thought he'd been staring straight at my face, his eyes have been half-locked onto the sickle in my hand. I let my gaze drop to it as well. I know how guilty that makes me look, so I lift my head back up. If Kiero and Spens found her, then they knew the weapon was gone. And now I have it.

I can see it in his eyes. He knows.

Kiero knows I killed Elora.

Time to do damage control. It makes me sick to think of it that way.

"You can hate me," I tell him. "I don't care. But if both of us die then what the hell was the point of all of this?"

In the silence that follows, a million scenarios run themselves through my head. He's going to walk away. He's going to shut down every single emotion processing through his head and kill me. He's not going to do anything but sit there and wait and eventually I'll be forced to do something, just like I was last time.

"C'mon," he says abruptly, turning on his heel and walking away. I blink after his retreating figure, eyebrows furrowed. Quickly, I jog after him, half-convinced on some level that the second I get close he's going to turn around and stab me. He doesn't, but I still stop a few feet behind him for good measure, walking quickly to keep up with him.

"You got a plan?"

"Something like that."

Well, it's better than what I had in mind, which was approximately nothing. His voice is cold and his eyes even colder. It's unsettling.

I still follow him, though, checking over my shoulder and off into the distance. Ross could be anywhere, but I doubt he's far. It's only a matter of time before he finds us and the real fight begins.

Eventually the two of us crawl out of a trench and up onto higher ground. Kiero's walking forward like he knows exactly where he's going, which does wonders to ease my mind. It really does look like he has a plan, or he's doing a damn good job of pretending. Not two minutes later I think I can see his destination - a small, metal hatch in the ground, almost covered by a puddle. He wrenches it open when we get there, watching the water pour between the ladder rungs and into the darkness.

"You got a flashlight?" He asks me, crouching down by the hole. I pull my flashlight out of my coat, handing it to him. He carefully balances it upright in the mud, packing dirt around the edges for good measure. He flicks the switch on. I look up, following the swath of light that cuts through the air, pointing straight up into the sky. It's so dark around us that you could probably see it for a mile.

"You first."

For a half-second I'm tempted to refuse. I don't know what's down there, and all it would take is him slamming the hatch shut for me to be stuck down here with no way of knowing how to get out.

I step down onto the slippery ladder, carefully lowering myself down the hatch. It's freezing, and I'm not even halfway down to the bottom. My fingers are numb through the material of my gloves. I jump down the last few rungs, shaking my feet free of the thick, soaking wet mud at the bottom. Kiero drops down next to me a second later, flicking on his own flashlight and pointing it around the cavern.

"You know what you're doing?" I question.

"Not really," Kiero says flatly, starting forward.

Fair enough.

We walk into the nearest tunnel. It's only slightly drier down here, with uneven holes in the ground. The air gets colder, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

I lose count of how many tunnels we go down, some of them so narrow and small I feel like they're going to crush me entirely. Eventually he stops at a series of four tunnels. It's like a maze, this far down. Kiero still looks like he knows where he's going. It makes me wonder if he really does know what he's doing, if this plan is more than I know it.

The flashlight goes off. My heart stops somewhere in the same second. There are rapid footsteps echoing all around me, getting quieter the harder I listen.

"Kiero?" I try, the shakiness in my voice betraying me. I reach my hand out to where he last was, just behind me. Nothing but the freezing air.

I can't hear the footsteps anymore. There's no feeling of someone else being just behind me, or at my side. I think I might've been right. This plan _was_ more than I knew. I was a blind man following someone who looked like he was going to give me an ounce of hope, only for him to turn around and abandon me. He probably planned it the second he saw me.

Kiero's gone.

And if Ross is coming down here, that means I'm on my own.

* * *

**Rossili Daniels — 17 years  
District Four Male**

* * *

The light cuts through the darkness like a beacon.

From afar, it doesn't make sense. All I know is that my eyes pick out the light before anything else. At first I think the darkness is just playing tricks on me; I've been seeing nothing but black and gray and darkness since I've got in here. My head must be trying to pick out whatever light it can.

Upon closer inspection, it's real. Across the plain I can see something sticking out of the ground, the source of the light a flashlight stuck in the ground right next to it. Every one of my nerves is on edge. It feels too much like a trap, like this was planned, like I'm being herded exactly where someone wants me to be.

I don't exactly have a choice, though, unless I plan on sitting here and hoping for the best.

Here goes nothing.

I wrench the flashlight out of the ground and flick off the switch. On a last whim I throw it down the tunnel leading straight into the ground. It lands with a thick plop, but there's no movement from below except for the rippling of the puddle it landed in.

I climb halfway down the ladder and stop. Wait a minute. There's no noise, no curious eyes looking up at me.

Either I'm going to get ambushed and die right away or I'm being overly paranoid. I didn't know being too paranoid was a bad thing until I realized how slow my progress was. There's nothing I can do to stop what's at the bottom of the ladder, if something's even there.

I jump down, landing in a crouch, and instantly right myself, my hand already extending towards my spear. Nobody peels themselves away from the darkness and comes charging at me. There's no sound but the water dripping off the roof.

The hatch slams shut above me, plunging me into darkness. So much for not wanting to do this.

I fumble around for a few moments until I can pull a flashlight out of my backpack. Even then, the beam of light that cuts through the frigid air doesn't do much to light up the tunnels themselves. What it does, show, however, is two pairs of footprints already half-filled with water, leading away from me. I can't say I'm surprised. Unless it's a trick of the light, or the Gamemakers, they're together. They're stronger together. Maybe stronger than me, if they play their cards right.

Quill's not an idiot. He knows we were allies, what feels like years ago, but it doesn't matter anymore. It can't.

There's really no place to go but forward.

The footprints twist and wind through several tunnels that slope down and then up, carving an impossible labyrinth under the ground. I don't even have any clue how they're navigating down here, let alone why they thought this was a good idea in the first place. If they're luring me down here they must have kind of plan, or idea of what to expect.

I've never been down here. I found one hatch, in an otherwise empty bunker after I was left alone, but it refused to budge.

After only a few minutes of walking that feel like forever in the black, the footprints end. It's a circular, almost cavern-like place, with tunnels branching off in every direction from it. I squint down at the ground. They didn't stop. One of them branches off down a side tunnel, gaps between each one like whoever it was was running. There's no second pair next to it, or even overlapping it.

Which means the second person doubled back. Which also means I walked right past them and didn't even know it.

There's the slightest shifting of air behind me, and I'm half-turned when something rips it's away across the side of my neck.

I yell and leap backwards, hands flying up to my throat. There's blood everywhere. It's deep, but not deep enough to kill me. They missed. It was meant to kill me, but they missed without the ability to really see where they were aiming.

My flashlight's in the mud in front of me. There's almost no light escaping from where it's half-buried. It takes me a second too long to run for it before I get slammed into again. I'm taken straight to the ground. I can't see. My eyes aren't adjusting quick enough. Whoever's attacking me must be used to the darkness. I reach out a hand, on a whim, the other person half on top of me on the ground. My hand doesn't lock around a limb, like I had hoped, but instead the front of their jacket. I push them back as hard as I can, only sending them on top of my legs, but it's enough to wiggle free.

I shrug my backpack off and rip my spear free in the same moment. I swing blindly, scrambling to my feet. It doesn't hit anything, but I think I can see the silhouette across from me back up.

We're fighting half blind. I don't even know who I'm fighting. Who I could be killing.

I won't die like this, hidden in the dark, like a rat that's never seen the sunlight. It feels like I haven't, not in a long time.

The flashlight gets kicked to the edge of the cavern. I make out a boot, the edge of a jacket, and nothing else.

_Bang._

A bullet scrapes over the top of my shoulder. I didn't even see the gun, didn't even see their hands, I can't fight like this. I dive to the ground, straight towards their legs must be. I lock my arms around their knees and drag them down. I know where they are, at least. I strike out a hand in the direction of where the gun has to be, feeling my fingers wrap around the cool metal. They're struggling, though, and hard.

My elbow hits a chin. Whoever it is splutters and tries to rear back with my hands still holding them fast. I wrangle my other hand around the gun, face half pressed into the mud.

A shot goes off into the air, followed quickly by another one. I strike out again with my elbow, hearing a yell and feeling warm blood drip onto my face. Two blades are around my face. One long, a knife or a sword, maybe. I can't tell what the other one is.

I kick at them, connecting with their torso and then again in their side. I push forward, feeling my already bandaged hand wrap around one of the weapons. The slice across my palm is deep but I keep my grip around it until I wrench it out of their hand. My foot hits their ribs again, and I hear the whoosh as their breath leaves them. They slide backwards, not even fighting me this time when I push them away. I scramble on hands and knees over to where I can just see the bare glimmer of the flashlight. My hand locks around it, everything in me filling with a relief.

Something cracks into the back of my head. The flashlight falls out of hand again, but not before I make out the ragged scars on Quill's face, stars blinking behind my eyes.

One of his hands presses down on my throat, fingers digging across the wound and into my windpipe. My head's bleeding now too. He's got a knee pressed to my chest, the other one pinning my wrist and hand down. Quill's free hand is wrapped tight around the handle of a sickle. The flashlight's just barely illuminating the cavern now, the edges of his face warped by the light.

"Quill," I choke out. He presses the sickle's edge into my throat. "Don't. Quill. This isn't you, you know it's not."

He's faltering. His hands aren't as steady as he thinks they are. It's still hard to breathe.

"You don't know that," he says roughly. His hand tightens. I struggle, only briefly, feeling his knee press harder against my chest.

"I do." My voice is raspy, struggling under his hands.

It can't end like this. With one of my former allies half-strangling me in the darkness, trapped underground like a mausoleum. With my Mom and my friends watching, able to see as much as I can. It's not right.

This isn't how it's supposed to go.

"I saw you, with your ally. The younger one. And with Abbie. You're not_ this_," I manage. He stares down at me, eyes flickering from my eyes to the hand he's got wrapped around my throat.

"That's the thing. You never knew me."

There's a thud as the sickle lands in the mud next to us. There's hope in me, for a brief moment. And then his other hand wraps around my throat. I try to choke out a sound but it's cut off almost immediately. His nails are digging into my skin. I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't_ breathe_.

I recognize the look in his eyes. The one that says he already hates himself and anything else he does is just collateral.

How many thoughts can run through one person's head at once? The feeling of seeing my Dad set sail and getting the news that he wasn't coming back. The exhilaration when they first let me in the Training Center. Cas wobbling and falling straight off a rock into the water, Genivieve's laughter ringing in the background. My Mom's proud, yet wobbly smile at the Goodbyes, her hands framing my face.

Never like this. No one ever said it was going to be like this.

I thought I was cut out for this.

I was wrong.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove ****— 16 years  
District Eight Male**

* * *

_Boom._

My heart drops into my stomach. One of them is dead.

It's my fault someone just died. I abandoned Quill, knew Ross would find him eventually and never me. I'm the only person in this arena with a map. I knew my chances were better and I took the ultimate risk.

It payed off. It's hard to ignore the death in these tunnels, the echoing of the cannon in them. But I'm still here, and there's only one other person left, and maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

Estelle was a mistake. Hariwin was on purpose, but I was trying to save someone else. Maybe this last one has to be for me. Maybe the only reasoning that will ever make sense in my head for killing someone is that I'll end up dead if I don't, everything forgotten and buried six feet under. I don't want to die. I never have. It took everything in here happening to realize that maybe I was capable of being like every other victor.

I take a deep breath and straighten up. I push the sword back in my belt, feeling the weight of the staff lying across my back. It's that that's pushing me forward - the reminder of what's happened for me to be here right now.

I notch an arrow on the bow string and keep it in my hands, half-drawn back. I have no idea which one of them survived, or where they are. Maybe firing into the darkness isn't the best idea I've ever had, but it's all I've got.

I make my way back to the cavern ever so slowly. The route's almost memorized in my head. I didn't go all that far, really, just far enough way that I wouldn't be able to hear what was going on and they could'nt hear me if I slipped up.

The tunnel leading back to the cavern is dark, but when I turn the corner to the spot where I left Quill there's the faintest bit of light bouncing off the walls, not even reaching the tunnel's edge.

There's a body. It's almost cloaked in shadow, but I can see it. The person leaning over the body picks themselves up, digging a hand into the ground to push themselves up. It's a slow process, one that feels even longer when I'm not doing anything. I should shoot, let the arrow fly and hope it hits them right in the back, like it did with Hariwin. But the painfully slow moments are making me hesitate.

As soon as they stand up, their shadow casting long across the ground, I know it's Quill. His hands are clenched tight together, shaking. He's almost entirely covered in mud, body swaying.

"Go ahead," he says suddenly, voice tinged with exhaustion. I freeze, the bow raised in my grip moving the slightest bit. He's not even looking towards me, still looking distantly down an opposite tunnel, but he knows.

"Quill—"

"I don't know why you're hesitating. You want to go home. I'm letting you. You're not a bad person, but you want me dead."

He sounds so certain it's frightening. I continue staring blankly at his back, mouth hanging open slightly. It shouldn't be this easy, but I can just make out both of his weapons lying discarded on the ground, probably from the fight. Quill turns to me, slowly, mouth twisted into a wry smile.

"She wanted me to kill her, you know. And it still doesn't make me feel any better. Kinda fucked, isn't it?" He says weakly. "And now him. Nobody deserves that, and I did it anyway."

I don't know what he's talking about. Ross legs are turned at awkward angles, like he fought against death itself. Like it was bad. Maybe he did die in a way no one deserves to. But nobody who's died deserved it. We're just kids.

But Quill's not fighting me. He won't give them their final show. I can win. I can win and I'll know that he let me.

I tighten my grip on the bow, steadying it. He looks away from me again, down at Ross' body and then off into a tunnel. One of his hands reaches down towards his jacket. I follow the movement, eyes narrowed.

He pulls a gun out of his belt. My eyes widen impossibly, just as he turns towards me and raises his arm.

I release the arrow the same time the gun goes off. I skid away as quickly as possible, but it's like I can see the bullet in the air coming towards me, and I know that even if it doesn't kill me I still won't be quick enough.

A blazing hot pain slams into my shoulder, agony rippling through my arm. My momentum, trying to get out of the way in time, slams me into the wall and I let myself slide down to the ground with it. It's burning. It feels like my shoulder's on fire, and the pain just keeps getting worse. I clasp my hand around it, the bow slipping out of my grip while blood slides between my fingers.

I look up just in time to see Quill fall, my arrow buried in his chest.

The agony twists across my face worse than before, just as the cannon goes off.

Quill's dead. I killed him, and I didn't even know it happened.

It's the pain, maybe, or the confusion of seeing him fall when I barely had time to aim, that's fogging my mind.

_"May I present to you the Victor of the Hundred and Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games — Kiero Mearlove of District Eight!"_

That's what snaps me out of it.

I just won.

I lean back against the tunnel wall, shaking violently. I can't feel my fingers. The bleeding won't stop. I'm too far underground. The air feels thick, now, like I'm suffocating. It's like every part of me is snapping, scattering across the ground.

It's then that I feel the tears slipping down my face, and that scares me more than the pain ever did.

I make myself stand, gripping my shoulder. I don't bother grabbing the bow. There's no one left to kill. I'm the one left standing, out of everyone, I'm the one going home. That only makes the tears come harder.

It doesn't feel like me. It feels like the Games took me and shattered me across the ground.

I'm okay. I'm alive. I'm going home.

It's like a mantra. It's all I can think off, the only thing that's keeping me standing.

It's all I have left.

It takes me a second to realize that unless I get out of here myself, they have no way of even getting me home. I still have to make it out of here.

The map practically falls out of my backpack, tipping over sideways to the ground. I don't need it. There's footsteps, there's the trail of destruction we left down here. I don't need a map to point me back to the surface.

Making myself go back through the cavern is the hardest part. Ross' throat is already dark with bruises. Quill's eyes stare sightlessly past me, slumped awkwardly on his side. I did that. Both of them. I practically organized it. I'm alive because of it, but I still need time to decide if it was worth it.

The path doesn't seem as long, now. If I had the strength when I saw the ladder I would have run to it. Getting up it is difficult enough, with every movement of my arm sending fire up my shoulder. The staff knocks against the back of my legs. I still have it, and the gun. That's it. Everything else is back down in the tunnels.

I hope they leave it all there.

I brace my back against the hatch and push as hard as I can manage. The tears have stopped, but they're still staining my face. I wonder how desperate I look now, ready to escape this suffering air, get back outside. I wonder if Della will be on the hovercraft. Rayon, if he's okay enough to be there. I'm going back to everything I knew, or at least everything I thought I knew.

The hatch finally swings open, and I'm nearly blinded.

It's not even the full brilliance of the light - it's the red and oranges tinting the sky, the edges of the sun breaching the horizon, steadily rising. The clouds are gone. There are no signs of the storm, of the horror, of everything we went through.

It's like none of it was ever there.

* * *

**3rd. Rossili Daniels, District Four Male.  
2nd. Quill Grove, District Nine Male.  
Victor. Kiero Mearlove, District Eight Male.**

* * *

I'm kind of at a loss for words after this long, tbh.

We're not through, yet. You get two more chapters. Process this. Get over hating me, if you do, although I'm hoping no one really does. Just know that I loved Quill and Ross almost more than myself and that this chapter was one of the hardest ones to write yet. It was a hard decision that changed a hell of a lot more than anyone knows, and I'll definitely go in more detail if you guys want at the end of the next two chapters.

I just don't want to ramble. Baby Kiero will be alright.

Me, however. Well I've traumatized myself so much that I constantly question why the hell I'm writing another one.

Until next time.


	36. Closest To Home

Aftermath, Part One.

* * *

**Ferrox Mervaine — 28 years**  
**Head Gamemaker**  
**Post-150th Hunger Games**

* * *

The phone kept ringing.

He kept ignoring it.

Ferrox sat, perched on a cushy armchair in the corner of his room. He waited, watching the phone silently, as the ringing tapered off and left him in silence once again. He wrung his hands together for the eighteenth time, sighing and closing his eyes.

The ringing started again.

So, so dead.

It was a matter of some before some Capitol Force broke into his home. Dominika would get tired, eventually, and would just shoot him in his own home. She wasn't big on theatrics; it wouldn't matter how he died. It never did, in her eyes, only this time too much had happened. She hadn't spoken so much of a word to him since the Final 8 interviews, and that scared him the most. Too much. Too much had happened on his watch.

It wasn't even Kiero. He was fine. Mostly. Slightly traumatized when they got him on the hovercraft, a little quieter than he had been before during the post-Games interview, but he was whole and not suffering a mental breakdown as of yet, so he was fine as a victor. The Capitol liked underdogs. He wasn't a terrible choice. It was everything else. All of the collateral damage. He was probably going to be the next one to fall victim to it.

The phone started, and picked up again. Ferrox was seriously contemplating why he had gotten it in the first plate.

He yanked his own phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen for a moment, before he called Cambria.

"What do you want, dickhead," she answered almost immediately. It was nice, almost, to hear her voice, even if it was like this.

"Just wanted you to know I'm probably dying this afternoon. Thought you should know."

He blinked when she didn't respond. He even pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at the screen for confirmation that she hadn't hung up.

"Make up cool stories at my funeral, hey? If they have one. Look extra hard for my body, she'll probably hide it in the basement—"

"She's not going to kill you, Fer."

Ferrox sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"You know her as well as I do, Cam. I fucked up. Once or twice is okay, but this much? I'm dead," he stated simply. It scared him a lot more than he cared to admit, though. For all the death he saw he wasn't ready for it himself. There was another pause on the end of the line, but he could hear background noise. Cambria was still there.

"Where are you?" She asked suddenly.

"My house?"

"Okay. Stay there. She'll kill you over my dead body," Cambria said determinedly. Ferrox could hear it in her voice, that slightly scary version of her where she threatened and did anything she had to do. It was never towards him. It was always protecting him.

He wouldn't let it happen. They didn't have to both be collateral. Just him. It scared him, but it was better than the alternative. Better than both of them.

The phone started ringing again. If it shook much more it was going to fall off the table.

"I love you, hey, Cam? Just know that."

"If you hang up on me, I swear to God—"

He hung up on her.

Ferrox dropped his phone on the chair and darted across the room, grabbing the other phone. Now or never. Might as well get it over with.

"Hello!" He answered cheerfully. The person on the other end might believe it, but his heart was hammering too hard for him to actually believe it. He wasn't okay with this. He didn't want to die. Running wasn't an option, though.

"Head Gamemaker Mervaine. President Gardell requests your audience at the Mansion."

Subtle.

It's not like he didn't expect it, though. By the sounds of it, the man on the other line was some burly, tattooed security guard who could probably crush his head like a grape. Nothing more than a scare tactic. One that was working, but he didn't have to know that.

Ferrox arranged for a car. He didn't want to die here, in his room, his own brain splattered across the walls. If he waited any longer that's exactly what would happen. Not five minutes later he heard more than saw the vehicle pull up outside the building. It took everything in him to make himself leave the hallway, shut the door behind him with a soft click. Down the stairs. Outside. The driver was non-descript, the car black. He was already riding in a hearse.

The whole ride there was a blur. It upset him, after he realized that they were already almost there. He should've taken more time memorizing the streets. Should've done a lot more things, but there was nothing that he could do now. He told Cambria he loved her. He probably should've called Vesper, but his brother would understand. That, or he'll spit on his grave, but at least he'll know he's remembered.

It has to count for something.

Everything after that's a blur. The car stops, but the chaffeur doesn't move. An armed guard of about six people escorts him through the gates and into the mansion. He's lead to the end of a hallway that's all too familiar, shoved through one of two grand doors, and all but locked inside. There's a thud as the doors settle against each other. He doesn't bother trying them. They're not locked, that's not Dominika's style either, but Ferrox would guarantee all six of those guards are still sitting outside.

Oh well. Nothing to do but wait. It's not like he's unfamiliar with the room, at any rate. They meet here all the time. He skidded across the floor in every single one of these chairs while she stared at him blankly from the opposite wall.

He plops himself in one of the chairs, for old time's sake. With the tip of his shoe he begins spinning himself in circles. He doesn't have anything better to do than wait.

Turns out it doesn't take long. He's still spinning when he hears the door open, but he doesn't stop spinning.

"Ferrox."

Still spinning.

"Are you ever going to stop?"

Ferrox catches the edge of the floor with his shoe, nearly catapulting himself out of the chair. He scoots around until he's facing Dominika, vision still spinning. He gives his best convincing smile. Apparently, she isn't amused.

"You know, being so flippant about things is the reason we're in this situation."

"Me, flippant? Rude."

She isn't amused by that, either.

"I only_ act_ like I am. If I really was, this Capitol wouldn't be standing. The Games would have been blown to hell with half the population," he continues. Dominika stares at him silently.

"You know that. You're not stupid, it's the reason you're still in power. You're one of the most loved Presidents of our time - young enough to be admired, fierce enough to keep people in line. Strong enough to make the right decisions. Everyone before you made the wrong ones, and that's why they're all dead and you're still here."

"I don't think I've ever heard you speak that efficiently," Dominika said flatly, raising an eyebrow. Ferrox smiled. He wasn't done yet, though. He couldn't be. He couldn't afford to lose this fight.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you want to kill me."

Dominika looked across the room at him, arms crossed over her chest. He smiled again.

"I know you don't. That's your only fault," Ferrox told her. His heart was pounding. He was either winning or digging a deeper grave for himself. "You get attached. Not to a lot, but when you do .. well. Look what happens."

She glared at him. "The idea of killing you is becoming more attempting."

"I knew you didn't want to."

They both stopped, staring at each other silently. She hadn't come any closer, and he hadn't dared rise from the chair. This was about making all the right moves. So far, he had failed, until this moment. He had minutes to make everything right. That, or turn the situation in his favor.

"You talk more when you're terrified," she tells him flatly. Ferrox swallows. Dominika walks forward, slowly, heels clicking against the tiled floor, until she's looking down at him, standing mere inches away.

"Remember why you're terrified. One move, and I could have you dead. For all your bravery, all your foolishness, you are not in control. Remember that."

He stood, until they were nose to nose. She refused to take a step back. He was taller, but she stared up, unflinching. She really was terrifying, when you looked her in the eye. One of the most merciful Presidents they had ever had and look at her.

"Remember why you chose me? He asked. He waited a few moments, hands clenched when she didn't answer. Not like he expected her to.

"You said I was always one step ahead," he reminded her. "Maybe I'm not, today, but I still know you. And that's what scares you the most. It's not the rustling in the Districts, the unnecessary death of kids or civilians. You're afraid of someone breaking through, tearing you apart."

That was it. His final card. And someone was either going to come through the door and shoot him, point blank in the head, or he'd survive. He barely dared to breathe.

It was all about the moves. Who got the upper hand. He was aware of that better than anyone else.

"Are you ever afraid it might be the other way around?" She questioned simply, and the smirk on her face was wicked. The smile he gave her back was reflexive, but it was the slightest bit real.

"Guess we'll find out."

Dominika shook her head, the smirk still plastered on her face. Her eyes had changed though.

"Leave."

Ferrox wasn't going to fight that one. He side-stepped her quickly, heading right for the door. Hopefully the guards on the other side knew not to kill him, or this would all be for nothing. That, and he'd be a little peeved.

The guards parted silently outside the door. He didn't turn to see if Dominika had followed him out, instead hurrying as quickly as possible. Anywhere but here, before Dominika changed her mind. Once outside, he waved off the offered car. It still hurt to breathe, or maybe he was just imagining that. His heart felt like it was going to explode out of it's chest.

Alive. He's alive. Maybe not due for a massively long life, but alive for now.

His phone was still lying on the chair at home. He probably was still going to die, at any rate. Cambria wouldn't hesitate, even if Dominika had. But he might as well go back. There was no where else to go at this point.

The walk flies by as fast as the drive did. The stairs are methodical - taken one at a time because he's afraid he's going to fall over if he goes any faster. He doesn't bother taking the key out. Why bother locking the door when you think you're not going to be coming back, after all. He slips through the slightest crack of the door and closes it silently behind him, leaning back against the wooden frame.

He's alive.

His eyes fall on his phone. The screen is lit up, flashing repeatedly. No doubt Cambria tried to get a hold of him again.

How many lives does he have?

"Fer?"

He freezes, straightening up when Cambria appears out of thin air at the end of the hallway. She looks frenzied, and he doesn't even get one good look at her before she's on him, arms wrapped around his neck, feet almost dangling off the floor.

"I thought you were _dead_, what the fuck is wrong with you, Fer, christ."

He's oddly still. Cambria steps back, eyebrows drawn together. The concern that's in her eyes is something he rarely sees. Whenever he does it's almost always at him. He never realized it before.

"Are you okay? Jesus, your hands are shaking, what the hell happened?" She asks frantically. It's startling, to see her in such disarray. She clutches both of his hands between her own. "You're not talking. It's weird."

Ferrox doesn't respond, just tugs his hands gently away from her, and wraps his arms around her. His entire arms are shaking, he realizes idly. Cambria doesn't stop him, just wraps her arms back around him, hands clutching at his shoulders and head buried against his neck.

It's nice. He's still having trouble processing, but it's nice regardless.

"I'm fine," he says weakly into her hair.

"Yeah?"

"I'm alive."

"There's a difference between those two things."

He pauses, and shrugs under her hold. One of her hands leaves his back and thumps him hard in the shoulder, but she doesn't let go after that.

"Can you marry me now?" Ferrox mumbles. "I think I deserve it."

He never expects anything of it. Whenever he brings it up she hits him, or pinches him, or kicks him under the table no matter who's watching. He always just smiles, half-joking and half-serious, all the time. He loves her, though. He really does.

"Sure," she says suddenly, into his shoulder. He pauses.

"Wait, what?"

"Are you _deaf_, I said sure, because you probably won't make it to 30 anyway, so—"

Ferrox lifts her up, until her feet are clear off the floor, arms wrapped tight around her waist.

"Put me down."

He continues squeezing.

"I'm serious."

The thought of letting go is harder than he thought it would be.

"I'm not going to marry you anymore, put me down."

He laughs, an honest to God earnest laugh, but returns her to the ground. It feels so good, actually amazing, to still be here. This was worth living for. _Will_ be worth living for. Ferrox pulls back, still keeping his hands at her side, unable to wipe the smile on his face. Cambria stares back at him, irritation flickering in her eyes.

"I'm going to regret this," she sighs, shaking her head, but she smiles now too.

"Probably. Hey, does this mean I can kiss you now?"

"No."

"What, it's not like we haven't before—"

"Ferrox."

He breaks off, smiling sheepishly. "Okay. I'll save it for later, then."

Cambria opens her mouth and then obviously decides better on whatever comment she had almost made, snapping her mouth shut. She looks flustered for a second, nearly waving her hands in exasperation before she drops them on each of his shoulders, leaning forward until she all but face-plants into his chest.

"You're insufferable," she mumbles, but there's something fond in her voice.

"I know."

He's insufferable, and loving, and _alive_.

And it's worth it.

* * *

**Della Carter — 55 years  
District Eight Mentor  
Victor of the 110th Hunger Games**

* * *

It's weird.

It had been her and Mia for so long that she'd gotten used to it. And then Rayon happened, and they had to spend their time picking up the pieces the Games had left him in.

And now Kiero. It's easier this time, though.

For one, he's not in nearly as many pieces. Almost all of them come back shattered or broken in some form, but he might be easier to put back than most. He's strong enough to do it on his own. He would, if there weren't already so many people crowding around him. By the time all the formalities are done, though, he's drained. They all are. It's only been nine years since Rayon won but it feels like a lifetime.

She's hoping the train ride home will give them time to collect their thoughts, organize them into something resembling normalcy. It might be harder than normal.

Mia's going to kill her for this year of all years being the one someone else finally comes back to District Eight. The one year she didn't come with them.

She'll survive.

Rayon had untucked himself from her side and disappeared a few minutes ago. Kiero's still standing silently beside her, looking around the compartment like he's still processing that he's here.

"You alright?" She asks him. He looks at her quickly, wringing his hands together.

"Yeah."

"Now say it like you mean it."

Kiero paused, and then his mouth twisted into a smile. He ducked his head, staring intently at his shoes.

"I ... I think I am, though. Maybe not fully, but I'm getting there. I think."

Della found herself smiling without realizing it. She knew she had it in him. For a few moments in those Games, she had been worried. Eitta died and she barely saw Rayon come out of his room, only for him to appear silently behind her chair in the control room not five minutes after Kiero killed Estelle. They had come together.

And then there was the map.

It wasn't supposed to be in the arena. It didn't even look like it was a sponsor gift, and it shouldn't have been. The money it cost would have drained her entirely, if Cooper and Miles hadn't come to her and encouraged the idea. They joined together for it, for their kid's alliance. And it had paid off. Kiero got to it first - luck of the draw, and then he had used it to win.

"Glad to hear it," she says finally. Kiero glances at her out of the corner of his eye and looks away just as quickly.

"What?" Della questions softly.

"It's just. Is it bad that I'm afraid to go home? I never even thought that could happen, never thought I could feel like that, and I do," he says hesitantly. He never was before. It's just another one of the things that's changed.

She understands that feeling, though. The overwhelming, crushing feeling that even though you've accepted your victory no one else will. Even if you kill your own demons you're still convinced on some level that everyone will hate you for what you've done, that your family will turn their backs on you and your friends will forget the person that left in the first place.

It's a scary thought. That alone is almost worse than the Games.

"Listen to me, alright?" Della starts. "The second you get back, the second they see you again, none of it's going to matter. There's a ton of reasons why, but you wanna know the most important one? A piece of their home left when you did, and against all odds they're getting it back. _You_ back."

"But—"

"Nah, no buts. If you try that on Mia she'll probably smack you. They won't care. Not right away. Eventually they might wanna talk. But you'll be home, and that's all that will matter right now. Proven fact. Trust me on it."

Kiero stuffs his hands in his pockets, sighing and scuffing one of his feet along the ground.

"Go get some rest," she tells him gently. "You probably could use it."

He nods, looking at her in an almost grateful way. His shoulder brushes against hers when he slips past her to go, although it doesn't seem like he has a clear direction in mind. Della can't blame him.

"Hey, Della?" Kiero says at the last moment before he rounds the corner. "Thanks."

He doesn't tack on a _for everything_, or anything close. Because she knows. She just smiles, knowing that he's going to be okay when she gets one back from him.

They might be a little crooked at the edges, a little scarred - inside or outside - but it doesn't matter. She's bringing two boys back instead of one. Mia won and she felt alive, finally seeing someone come out at her hand, even if she was bloody and outraged and wanted to tear everything and anything who touched her apart. When Rayon came back it felt like being ruined all over again, seeing how damaged he was.

Kiero's different. The rebuilding process started the second they snatched him up out of the arena.

It'll be good for him. For them all. It really will.

* * *

The entirety of the next chapter is Kiero's POV, I promise I'm not neglecting him.

So, I'm just gonna start off with a few basics:

A lot of people have been asking about Mayday. Fact is, I have so much stuff to do in the next month that I'm probably going to go into cardiac arrest. I'm going to hold off starting Mayday until about mid-December, which is when it'll be published and submissions will open. I understand that's a little ways away - so** if you want to be notified of when it starts, please say so in a review** and I'll PM everyone who does when it's published. Feel free to start coming up with basic tribute ideas if you want, but nothing's really happening for about a month.

Because of the mass quantity of shit I have to do, I'm almost certain the last chapter won't be posted next week. I don't know when I'm going to be finished it. It will be before Mayday, but if it takes a few weeks, be patient with me. I'm also working on a type of one-shot for the babies of this story, that I'll probably publish sometime between the last chapter of this and the publication of Mayday. So, look out for that, if you're interested.

Thanks to those that have stuck around this far. Really, I appreciate it.

Until next time.


	37. Gold

Aftermath, Part Two.

* * *

**Kiero Mearlove — 16 years**  
**District Eight Male**  
**Victor of the 150th Hunger Games**

* * *

I still don't really know whether to believe Della or not.

There's still that nagging, rather annoying feeling that I don't deserve any type of affection, that I don't deserve anything, really. Why me, out of all 24? It doesn't make sense. Maybe it never will.

All I know is that the train stopped five minutes ago, and sometime in the next 30 seconds I'm expected to go out there, and the possibility of throwing up is a very real one.

"You'll be fine," Rayon says quietly, from just behind my shoulder, like he could hear my thoughts. It still startles me, every time he speaks. He didn't say one word that I heard before the Games, but I think we've been making progress. Still, it's unnerving. Oddly comforting, though. He probably knows it best of all. Della won so long ago that she's probably got this victory spiel rehearsed, and I've never met Mia in my life.

Maybe there's companionship in victory. Family, even.

Della gives me a wide smile, one that I think is supposed to be encouraging. It helps, for all of two and a half-seconds, before I'm ushered down the stairs, off the train, and I'm put dead-set in the middle of absolute chaos.

The mass of camera flashes that go off in my face are absolutely blinding - there are spots blinking behind my eyes, a crush of people around me, and enough noise and yelling to deafen a small village. Someone shoves through the crowd just in front of me, pushing reporters and camera-people back with two arms. The woman gives an annoyed sigh, looking half-ready to rip the cameras out of people's hands if they don't stop.

"Sorry, kid!" She yells over her shoulder at me. "I'm trying, promise."

It's when she looks at me that I know. Mia Calison. Victor of the 117th Hunger Games. Della lets out an amused huff behind me, watching Rayon duck away and towards Mia, practically tucking himself under her shoulder. She's still yelling frantically, trying to ward off the crowd with only one arm, now. After a moment she turns back to us. It's not until that moment that I realize I'm smiling. Mia gives me a _look_.

"I like this one already. Good job, Dells."

Mia pauses, looking over her shoulder, past Rayon.

"Well, I had your sister, but it appears I lost her. My bad," she admits, shrugging towards me. Something skips in my heart. I almost forgot, for a second. My family's here. My friends are here. If only it was easier to see.

I don't have to, apparently. Not a second later the crowd begins to part, just barely, and I see a flash of blond hair running towards me. That's all I get before Vero launches herself at me.

It might as well been with the force of a freight train, because that's what it feels like, with her arms wrapped vice tight around my neck, legs dangling off the ground. Without Della's hands on my back, steadying the two of us, Vero would have taken us straight to the ground.

We've never been like this, and it still feels right.

"Hey," she mumbles into my shoulder, barely audible over everything going on around us. "I love you."

A strangled laugh bubbles its way out of my chest, and she pinches me hard in the shoulder. I barely feel it, though. It's amazing, how right this feels. How every concern I have couldn't matter any less right now.

"I love you too," I tell her. She must finally be satisfied, because she loosens her hold on my neck and lets herself drop to the ground, pulling back. Before she looks at me she wipes frantically under her eyes, drawing the sleeve of her shirt over her hand.

"I'm not crying," she tells me instantly, but I can hear the thickness in her voice. It feels wrong to ruin the moment, though, and prove her otherwise.

I had barely noticed my parents approach. Apparently Mia was doing a better job of holding back the crowd that I had previously thought. My Dad hugs me, tight and worried, but I can feel the tension leak out of his shoulders the second I reciprocate. It didn't really sink in, until then, that I was okay. For all of us. We finally have confirmation that I'm not going anywhere. My mother is doing her best to wipe her face into something calm and collected, just like I would, but when she wraps her arms around me I can tell just how terrified she was. Feeling safe has never felt so good. There were times, before all this, when it felt like I had to take care of everything. Watch over everyone.

It feels nice to not have to, just for one second.

"Incoming," Vero says, normal as ever, just after I pull back from another hug. I blink at her.

And then an octopus, or something equivalent, attaches itself to my back.

I know it's Marylaw the second Vinsley's indignant screech rings straight into my ears.

"Hey, let me in, assholes!" He shouts, attempting to worm his way in-between us. Marylaw laughs, letting go for only a second before she spins me around single-handedly and all but attacks me again, burying her face in my shoulder. She's shaking, more than slightly, rocking the two us back and forth. Vinsley finally ends up squeezing himself half-between us, and it's so reminiscent of the goodbyes it actually hurts, somewhere in my chest.

Marylaw pulls back, hands on either side of my face, practically squishing my cheeks together. She's crying, openly and unashamed, but laughing at the same time, looking so damn happy it's almost a crime.

"Okay," she starts, fanning her face with one hand. "Okay, now I'm actually glad there are cameras here right now."

"Why—"

She grabs me by the shoulders, spinning me around, _again_. It's worth it though, because the look on Soren's face, who was standing not five feet behind me the whole time, is something I can't even describe.

"You know, I was hoping I would never have to deal with this," he says simply.

"Soren!" Marylaw chastises, and Vero hits him in the shoulder, and the feeling of this is so overwhelming that I feel like I'm going to cry. I've felt like that a lot, lately. Can't say it's really all that surprising.

"Are you going to come over here, or are you going to make me?" Soren sighs. "You're gonna make me, aren't you?"

I don't even have to say anything. He just steps forward and embraces me, hands clasping together around my back. That's different than usual. He's never started things, put his foot forward first. Maybe he just doesn't care anymore. I tighten my hands around his back, quite content to bury my face in his shoulder and literally never come out.

"If you cry, then I'm going to cry, and we're going to have some serious problems," Soren says quietly. I laugh, faintly, into his shoulder, and he just responds by holding on tighter.

It's not a maybe anymore.

This was worth it.

* * *

Mia has a dog.

I don't know why this is the first thing my brain chooses to focus on.

Vero all but drags me through the gates of the Victor's Village. People have been moving stuff into our new house for the entire day but I still haven't been in, despite the rest of my family tromping through it the past few hours. It still doesn't feel real.

But back to the dog.

It's a German Shepherd, or something similar. All I know is that it's big, and bounding straight towards us, and Vero looks like she's in love. It takes all of my sister's strength not to get tackled straight to the ground by 80 pounds of fur and saliva. I'd rather her get slobbered on than me.

Mia comes quickly down the steps of her own house, Rayon on her heels even though he lives next door. I'm moving in next to Della, or so I was told, who's practically directing the move-in. Her husband comes over to us almost immediately, rubbing his dirty hands across his pants and holding his hand out to me.

"Aravis," he says, smiling genuinely. "Nice to meet you. It'll be good to have a new neighbor."

It's nice that he words it like that. New neighbor. Like I didn't kill three people to be able to move in next door.

"The kids kind of invited themselves over. Izara's making dinner, I think. Quinten and Rhys were trying to help move stuff in and ended up getting in the way more than they did anything else, so I made them go help. They're excited to meet you all, though."

Aravis sounds almost apologetic, like his kids are toddlers instead of being almost twice my age. I know Izara's ten years older than me, but her brothers are easily there. It's funny to hear them talked about in such a way. Maybe it's funnier to realize that Della has a life, one that she loves. That I can have that too.

Della comes out of her own house, smiling, who I assume is Izara at her side. I can barely keep track of all the people I've been introduced to, and now there's more. This feels easier, though. More like home. Izara greets me enthusiastically, her brothers almost equally so. Mia's dog is still weaving between everyone's legs despite her attempts to call him back. Apparently he doesn't care. Despite all the bustle of it all, I kind of agree with the dog. This feels more natural than anything I've been forced to do or participate in since I got out of the arena.

"Are we inviting anyone else?" Izara asks, looking around for confirmation. Her eyes land on me. "Friends coming? Boyfriend?"

I freeze. There is a definite furrow between my eyebrows. My attempts to side-eye Vero fail when she takes a very obvious step back, out of my line of my vision.

Dad fights off a smile. Mom rolls her eyes.

Mia snickers.

"I totally just said that when I shouldn't have," Izara states flatly, glaring at Mia. It's apparent where she got the information from.

"He doesn't have a boyfriend," Della clarifies. The look on her face is torn. Clearly she debated saying anything at all and letting it continue just to humiliate me.

"Yet," Vero stage-whispers.

I throw a elbow at her side. She sees it coming from a mile away and leaps out of the way, practically cackling. I force a smile back onto my face, watching her dart into the house and returning my eyes to everyone else once she's gone. My ears are burning. If my whole face isn't red, it'd be a miracle.

Fuck's sake.

* * *

"This house is humongous," Vinsley says, the next day, squinting across the room and up the stairs. "Seriously. Gigantic."

"Yeah, because you're a midget."

"_Soren_."

Soren grins. Vinsley puts a hand over his chest, looking wounded.

"Just because you're 7'6 doesn't mean you get an opinion," Marylaw says from her perch on the table, swinging her legs back and forth.

"I think that's an overestimation," I point out. Soren looks down at me from the corner of his eye. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Apparently I'm shit at reading people, or so I learned at the goodbyes. I never figure anything out until it's too late to do anything about it. His eyes are nothing but impassive, giving nothing away about how he feels about all of this. Or me.

"You think?"

Vinsley continues staring around the room, eyes wide and awe-struck. None of my friends have ever been particularly bad off, but we never had it like this. When I first stepped foot inside the house yesterday it took me hours to get used to it. I don't know if I'll ever be used to it.

I stop paying attention for a grand total of two seconds, which is long enough for Marylaw to hop off the table, abandon her mug of whatever she stole from my fridge, and dart up the stairs. Vinsley sends us a confused look but chases after her nonetheless.

"I don't even wanna know," I settle on. I cross my arms over my chest, staring after them.

"I do," Soren insists. To my surprise he grabs my arm, giving me little choice in the matter. He drags me up the stairs and towards the sound of their voices, which is predictably coming from my room. It's not a surprise, however, that they ended up there. Apparently they're never going to leave me alone.

I don't want them to.

Marylaw and Vinsley are both lying face-down on my bed, making a variety of sounds that probably don't mean anything at all. Vinsley turns his head out of his arms, nearly falling straight onto the floor.

"This is the most comfortable thing I've ever laid on. Can you buy me a bed?"

"Sure."

"I wasn't serious—"

"I was."

He looks like he's about to leap off the bed and hug me. He's halfway there when Soren strides across the room and sits on him. Everything goes to shit in the next second. Vinsley shrieks, wiggling madly. He smacks Marylaw in the face and then in the ribs, who looks like she's not sure who to kill first. She settles for tackling Soren straight to the bed, pinning Vinsley further, who continues his muffled screams into my pillows.

I don't realize how widely I'm smiling until Marylaw stops, practically sitting on Soren's head, and stares at me.

It takes a second for Soren to realize he's no longer being directly attacked. He lifts his head as much as he can, hair flopping into his eyes. They're even more impossible to read now.

"What's happening," Vinsley complains. If they don't move soon he's going to suffocate. "I can't see."

Marylaw lunges off the bed towards me and throws her arms around my neck, smiling into my shoulder.

"You okay?" She asks, arms tightening around my back. I rest my chin on her shoulder. Soren's still staring. I stare back.

"Yeah."

For the first time since I got out, it might actually be the truth.

* * *

The next few months pass in a blur of things I can barely remember in order.

Trying to put things back together is easy, but only if I don't talk about what I did, or what happened, or the things that cause my eyes to glaze over when no one's looking. Della was right. It happened eventually.

The first argument with Vero happens the first night I wake up gasping, the threat of a screaming rattling in my throat, the vision of Hariwin's hands digging into my windpipe. She hears me through the walls. I don't have the continuous nightmares like some victors do. They're few, and sporadic, and it only makes them worse when it happens because I never have time to prepare myself.

She comes into my room, quietly. My eyes are blurry. I only know she's there when I feel her knees press into the edge of my bed, her hand wary and careful against my shoulders.

"Hey," she says gently. "It's okay."

"I'm fine," I manage, grinding my teeth together. I don't have to look at her face to know she's not convinced.

"Kiero—"

"I'm _fine_, Vero. Just leave."

She's staring at me, eyes hard. I won't look up at her. My hands are still shaking, breath catching in my throat when I think about it for too long.

"We're trying to help."

"I don't _need_ help."

Her hand leaves my shoulder abruptly, the warmth of her presence gone almost immediately. She's almost gone entirely before her next words.

"See if I care next time. Have fun suffering alone."

I stay awake the rest of the night.

The second time it happens is a month after I get home. I spend the rest of the night sitting back against the wall, knees drawn up to my chest, swearing that I can hear Vero pacing through the walls. My door never opens.

I wake up crying the third time and can't stop no matter what I do. I can't even see properly to know that I'm truly awake. I hear the creak of my door but can't convince myself to believe it's real. It's not until Vero's arms wrap around me, hesitant but so sure at the same time that I know I'm not alone. I try to say something, apologize or force anything at all out. All she does is shush me, scooting closer on the bed.

She sits next to me, after I've stopped crying, fiddling with my blankets until I fall asleep.

It's hard for me to accept help from anyone. It always has been. I think it's even harder now, knowing that everyone wants to pity me but I won't let them. They still try to, in subtle ways that they think I don't notice. It only gets on my nerves more.

I snap at my Dad for even asking if I'm okay, when I go quiet for a little too long. He doesn't even look offended, just saddened more than I thought was possible for him. I think my Mom gets it the most. Maybe not the killing thing, or the nightmares, but the feeling of not wanting to burden everyone, of having to take care of everyone even when you shouldn't be.

She tells me, once and that's it, that maybe I just need to sit back and let someone care for two seconds.

It's harder than I thought.

To their credit, Marylaw and Vinsley try not to change. For the most part they continue on like life is normal. I know it's for my benefit, and that sometimes they force smiles on their faces when there's barely any room for them, but I can't find it in me to get angry at them. They're trying.

It's Soren that gets me.

It's the eyes on the back of my head that I can practically feel when he thinks I'm not paying attention. It's how sometimes he'll stand closer to me than he usually does when he thinks I'm not okay and how he backs up other times, like he doesn't want to piss me off. He's always been good at subtlety but now it's like he forgot how to be.

And he won't say anything. It's like nothing changed but everything has.

"You don't have to watch me like I'm going to fall the fuck apart if you stop," I tell him, wishing my voice didn't sound so bitter. "I'm not."

It's not just that. It's everything building up. Soren just stares at me silently.

"I know you're not."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Sue me for having the audacity to care. I know you're not going to fall apart. _You're_ the strong one. But everyone's worried that you're being too strong. You don't always have to be," he tells me. He sounds a little angry. It's nothing like how he's sounded in the past few months.

"You don't have to patronize me. You think I don't know that I'm not always okay?" I spit out. "I get it from everyone else, I don't need it from you too."

Soren sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He stares out the living room window, eyes on the clouds darkening in the sky. I don't even know when he got here. One minute I was sitting on the couch and the next he was plopped down next to me.

A roll of thunder from outside breaks the silence.

I flinch without meaning to.

The few times it's stormed I've been alone. And it has to be pathetic, tensing because of the rain and the wind and the noise but I can't help it. Every time a storm comes it just reminds me of what I went through, everything that reappears in my head eerily vivid. Like I'm still in there.

Soren's staring at me now. A flash of lightning illuminates the room, for a brief second. I squeeze my eyes shut, putting a hand over them. It's easier than watching his reaction.

His weight leaves the couch. I think he's leaving, until I feel him sit down directly in front of me, just on the edge of the table. He pulls my free hand off of my knee, holding it between both of his own. I refuse to look at him. Somewhere in the back of my mind it strikes me that I'm being about as mature as a five year old, but I can't find the energy to care.

"I know it'd be easier for you to just get through it yourself," he says quietly. "But we're not gonna let you. So get that through your thick ass skull and stop complaining."

I choke out a laugh. Something in me still doesn't want to look up, so I just lean forward until my forehead is brushing lightly against his shoulder. He doesn't tense like I expected him to, like he usually does.

It doesn't just feel like a step in the right direction. It feels like a lot.

* * *

Everyone always seems to end up in my house.

I have to leave on the Victory Tour tomorrow afternoon, so it makes sense that everyone's here. Well, my parents and Vero, because they live here, and my friends because they just invite themselves over.

I still don't know why Mia's here, or why Della and Aravis are here, or why Rayon keeps fighting off a smile whenever I look around in exasperation.

He's doing better. Della thinks it's because of me, because he's finally seen a success. I don't know if I want to give myself that much credit, but it's good to see him something other than sad. Everyone just seems so at ease, so comfortable, even with the impending tour. I'm not looking forward to it, but I think it might be easier with everyone around me.

"Did Soren get lost? I swear, I need to put him on a backpack leash," Marylaw complains.

"I'd pay to see that," Vero says. I can't help but shake my head.

Rayon smiles again.

"I'll go get him," I sigh, hopping off the edge of the couch. Mia pauses, letting out a low whistle. I'm tempted to smack my head off the nearest wall.

"This is ridiculous," Vinsley states.

"Right. I'm getting tired of this no-relationship bullshit," Vero grumbles. Dad flicks her lightly in the side of the head. "What? It's true. I mean, he's gotta kiss him sometime—"

Her rambling is cut off by Mom's hand, though it's still slightly audible underneath it. I practically sprint to the doorway, grabbing my coat. I think better of closing the door behind me right away, leaving it open the slightest bit to peak my head back in.

"You know, maybe I'll go do it right now!" I yell back at them. The last thing I see is Vero's wide, shocked eyes. Marylaw's scream that sounds like something between elation and horror is loud as day even through the door, once I slam it shut.

It's bitterly cold out, and I didn't bring any gloves, but it's definitely not worth going back in the house. Soren's house isn't far by any means anyway. I still walk faster than usual, noting the lack of people on the streets and the barely-there flurries in the sky. The ground's already covered in the stuff anyway.

I rap my knuckles against the front door of his house, practically jumping up and down to keep some of the feeling in my toes. If he doesn't open the door in the next three seconds they're going to fall off.

It only takes two seconds. Soren pokes his head out the front door, one single eyebrow raised, retreats, and shuts it again. It only takes another minute before he comes back out, shrugging on his coat and yanking the hood up.

"What's up?" He asks.

"Mar' said you were supposed to be right behind them to do .. whatever everyone in my living room thinks they're doing. The words backpack leash and lost were involved," I inform him. Soren grimaces, but I notice he's barely looking me in the eye.

"Okay, what?" I demand. "You're never this awkward unless something's up."

Soren's lips are pressed so tightly together I'm convinced he's trying to will the words back down his throat.

"Is it weird that I don't want you to go? I know you're coming back and all, which is why this makes zero sense, and so instead of saying goodbye or being a nice person I'm hiding in my house like a goddamn hermit."

"You are a hermit."

"Thanks, I—"

When I left the house, I wasn't entirely serious. Which is why when I lean up and kiss him, he's not the only one that's immensely surprised.

He goes perfectly still. I don't remember putting my hands on the side of his face, but they're definitely there, his fingers just barely brushing against my wrists. The kiss is nothing more than the barest press of lips on lips, because we're both completely shit at it and half-frozen and I'm almost certain Soren's two seconds from a panic attack.

When I pull back his hands are fully wrapped around my wrists, like he's finally processed what's happening and doesn't want to let go. He settles for leaning his forehead against mine, eyes still closed.

"You ever gonna look at me?" I ask carefully. A ghost of a smile makes its way across his face.

"Nope."

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. Soren hunches over and buries his face against my neck, releasing my wrists in favor of wrapping his arms around my back. His face is freezing. It's like the action is on purpose - he knows how cold it is and I'd bet on him doing it purely to be an asshole.

"I can't feel my hands," he says suddenly.

"How romantic."

He snorts, shaking his hands frantically against my back. "I'm _serious._"

"Then go back inside. Nothing's stopping you."

Finally, he pulls back to look at me. His eyes are half-concerned and half-something completely unreadable. Maybe he'll always be like that, even to me. Maybe I just have to learn to accept it.

"I'll be back in two weeks," I tell him softly. "Not that long."

Soren nods, ducking his head, and finally releases me. He takes a few huge, full steps back. It's not hard to tell that he's distancing himself because he'll stay out here forever, if he doesn't at least try. It takes him a long moment to shut the door behind him, a careful, nervous smile on his face. It's a weird expression to see from him, but not entirely unwelcome.

I take a moment for myself, after he's gone, just standing there in the cold with my arms wrapped around myself. Something in me, whether it's my heart, or my bones, or just everything entirely, feels lighter.

That's not unwelcome, either.

* * *

Of course it's ruined, because the Victory Tour is infinitely worse than I thought.

Boarding the train almost makes my heart leap into my throat, even with Della and Mia and Rayon all there with me. It feels too much like when I got reaped, like they're shipping me back to the Capitol and finishing what they started. I know they're not, which is the worst part. I know I'm going to be okay and it still doesn't feel like it. Suddenly, everything Soren said last night makes complete sense.

The first three pass without incident. Twelve is just as I had imagined it, so dark and dreary that it feels like I'll be followed around by it if I take a wrong turn. There's a stage with Gera's parents and no one else, and another for Cassia with a father that looks so devastated that it's hard to look at, surrounded by all three of her brothers. They all have varying degrees of murder in their eyes, like she's dead because of me.

She might as well be.

Eleven is barely in mourning. It's like they're so used to losing everything that it barely phases them anymore. Mulberry's parents are grieving, but part of them's moved on. Only part, though. It's one of the most uneventful things I've seen in my life, until one of his sisters peels away from the crowd just after the speeches end. Some of the Peacekeepers move to grab her, but most don't look like they have the energy to care.

Mia leans down and grabs the girl's hand, helping her to the stage. She looks hesitant, for a second, huge brown eyes uncertain, and then she steps forward and wraps her arms around me, shaking.

Her name's Juniper, and she's eight years old, and she knows more than most of them do.

Falco's girlfriend won't look me in the eyes in Ten and neither will Abigail's brothers. Covered in snow, the District looks completely barren, like it's lost something it won't ever get back. I guess it did.

They look used to it though, too.

Falco's best friend comes up to me, like people have been trying to in every District. He tells me good luck, with everything, in the most emotionless tone I've heard all day. For some reason, I say it back.

Less than two years later he volunteers for the Hunger Games, and _wins_.

* * *

District Nine is a different kind of hell than I've ever experienced.

Arlo doesn't have anyone even there for him. I put an arrow in Quill's chest when he was one person from victory. And looking at Elora's brother, his eyes so haunted it's almost hard to, there's that twinge where I want to take it all back, take back what I said about it being worth it.

I can't just stay here and spit out what I've been told and then leave.

Della organizes something for me to meet people before I even ask her to, or come up with the idea myself. It's nice, knowing that she's looking out for me. That they all are.

The kid's from Arlo's orphanage are wide-eyed and innocent, barely even noticing his absence. There's so many of them it's not surprising, but there's really no one to talk to, no one who knew him well enough to really care. Someone without a brain tries to make Willow Grove talk to me. I get a nearly un-matchable death-glare and eyes that are too teary to be truly threatening before she leaves without a word, a Peacekeeper at her heels.

"Thank you," Marley Farro tells me, and I can tell it's taking everything in him not to fall apart. "For protecting her."

It doesn't make any sense.

"I didn't," I tell him. It hurts to admit it. "Not well enough. I should have."

Marley smiles wryly, ducking his head. He wipes it off his face just as quickly.

"Can't protect people forever. Elora ... you did what you could. And I'm grateful for it."

I nod, pressing my lips together. Now it's me who's having trouble looking him in the eyes. Marley clasps my shoulder, just for a second, but it's warm.

When he leaves, I know I shouldn't feel better. But something in me does.

* * *

There are seven siblings in Seven.

Which, to some people, is probably ironic. Funny, even. Seeing it only shows me how much some people had to come back to.

All four of Porter's are younger. 13, 12, 8 and 5, I find out later. The oldest one has the same look of defiance in her eyes that he did, in every moment of footage that's available.

Acacia's twin looks so much like her I almost panic, for a moment. It's dumb. Of course she looks exactly like her, they're twins for a reason, but I don't remember speaking two words to her and it still startles me. It's the same thing with Finnea's. They all have the same eyes, but there's something in them that gives me hope. Resilience. Maybe it's because they're Mason's and they're used to it.

It might be because they have nothing left to cling to.

* * *

Six, in a weird sort of way, is also the best and one of the worst.

There's no one to see. I knew, of course. His parents disappeared off the face of the earth, his grandmother died while he was in there. I give the typical speech to a crowd that does nothing but stare blankly, not daring to react.

They're angry. They have every right to be. They finally had a volunteer, had a solid shot at winning and proving everyone wrong, the Capitol the first on the list.

Spens gave himself up for me. He destroyed every shot he had to protect everyone else but himself.

There's no one to see, afterwards. The train isn't scheduled to leave for another 3 hours. I don't want to sit here for that long. There's other things I could be doing, something else.

Mia finds me, sitting in a chair in the Justice Building, leg fidgeting anxiously. She glances down each hallway, avoiding my curious look, before dragging me up and out of the chair.

"Um," is all I can get out, but her grip isn't too hard and she clearly isn't being too forceful about it. I look around her, further down the next hall. There's a window.

"Am I going out of that?" I ask her. She snorts.

"Be careful. Don't get mugged, or Dells will kill me. Among other people."

Fair enough.

The window's on the ground floor, so all I really have to do is grab the sill and hop out. Mia still grabs my arm, holding onto me steadily until she makes sure my feet are safely on the other side.

"Thanks," I say earnestly, turning back towards the window just as Mia makes to shut it.

"No problem, kid."

The window slams shut and I watch as she retreats, leaving nothing but me standing in the back-alley between the Justice Building and some random shop or other. It's freezing, but there's not much snow. There are a few people in the Square a block over - I can still hear them disassembling the stage.

I haven't been left alone in what feels like forever, but it can't have been more than a week at most.

I yank my hood up and shove my hands in my pockets. It's not going to be anywhere close. The Factory District is the complete other way, taking up over half of the District itself. There are trees off in the other direction. I don't really have any idea of where to go. Guess I'll have to wing it.

I only pass a few people. Guarantee most went back to their jobs, like it was any other day. The ones that are still roaming the streets look like they're slowly trickling back to their homes.

"Hey."

I freeze, hands going tense in the pockets of my jackets.

"Just wonderin' where you're going. Probably shouldn't be wandering here alone."

I turn, slowly, knowing I probably should've just kept walking. That, or doubled back. It's nothing but an older man, jacket practically swallowing his entire frame. It's a miracle he's still standing, with his skinny frame holding up the weight of numerous bags over his shoulders.

"Go down this street until it ends. There's an alley at the end. First left. Next right."

I don't know where he's directing me. I barely know where I even want to go, only the vaguest idea in my head. I nod though, trying to remain as discreet as possible. The man gives me a small smile, raises his hand in what must be a farewell, and continues on his way. I remain still, for a moment, watching his retreating figure until it disappears around the next corner.

The world's a weird place.

I could ignore his directions. Maybe I'm stupid not to. But something in me listens, tells me that I might as well, because if I can survive the Games nothing here will compare. I'm completely aware that somewhere in the world that must be an idiotic decision, but I've thrown every sense of rationale I had in me to the wind. There was a lot of it.

The area becomes more and more deserted the longer I walk. It's only been about ten minutes when I turn off into the alley. Maybe five more minutes until the last direction. I haven't seen anyone in a few minutes. It's creeping me out, and the smog isn't helping, the clouds providing a layer of dreariness that still manages to set me on edge.

I emerge from the next road into an open area, trees just infringing into the clearing on my right. I can just make out the fence that marks the end of the District in the distance.

It takes my eyes a few second to settle on the headstones hidden among the trees, some creeping up along the edge of the muddy road.

There's no one around. I glance down the roads again, just to make sure.

The steps I take towards the graveyard are slow, hesitant, like I'm certain someone's going to stop me. No one shows up. The first one I come up to is close to the road, the lettering so faded I can barely read it. The date's from over a hundred years ago. I don't recognize the name, but somehow I know. Age fourteen. And the one next to it is marked with a seventeen.

They're tributes.

Something settles in me, a weird feeling that puts me entirely off-kilter. My heart's racing. I shouldn't be here. Do I have a right to be here, or not?

It takes a lot to remind myself that he didn't have anyone. That every family he's ever had has vanished or died and left him alone. There was no one in this world but him. Elora and I probably knew him better than anyone else ever did.

The newer ones are towards the trees, some of them almost impossible to see. The headstone's are paler, not yet weathered by the sun and rain. And if I crane my neck, stretching to look further into the distance, I can see the newest, sparse grass just barely grown over the heap of dirt before winter stopped it.

_He might as well have been your brother_, a voice in my head whispers._ Just walk._

I can't make myself move.

I can't look at a grave and pretend that it's the Spens I knew. It's not. Talking to a headstone won't do anything for me. I've spent enough nights lying awake wondering if there's something I should've said, could've said that I didn't. To both of them. Sitting down will only confirm that he's in the ground because of me, that I put him there even if it wasn't my weapon that killed him. And I can't make myself move. My legs won't carry me any further than this.

I shove my hands back in my pockets and turn around, ready to set off back down the road.

Just before I turn around fully my eyes catch on something, bright against the dreary background, previously obscured by the other headstones in the way.

They're flowers. Splashes of orange and red and purple against the gray. They have to be fresh, just put there this morning. They'd be dead otherwise.

A smile fights it's way onto my face before I can stop it.

He's remembered. They all are.

* * *

Five blends into everything else I've seen. Audessa's mother looks the perfect picture of stoicism. Her little brother's crying. Her older brother doesn't even show up.

I didn't know her, didn't speak one word to her, and that's the worst part.

I feel bad. I know I should feel worse, because she's dead and she was a daughter and a sister and a friend and I doesn't know anything else about her other than the looks on the faces of her family. How was I any different? I wasn't standout. Why me over her? Why me over any of them?

It doesn't make any sense.

I don't think it ever will.

* * *

If I had to describe Four it would be this: it looks like someone tried to rebuild ruins and just barely managed to disguise it.

The cracks aren't all that noticeable, but they're there. There's more Peacekeepers than usual. People don't converse openly on the streets, instead speeding along quickly to wherever they need to go. Maybe it's because of the colder air, something they're unused to, but I know there has to be something more.

I know what happened during the interviews. Della told me everything so I wouldn't get any surprises. But it still doesn't fit together like it should.

Astrid's father is half-drunk out of his mind. The only real look I get is from one of her closest friends, who looks like he didn't just lose her but some limbs along with it. Like something's missing and he doesn't know how to work without it. I get it. I just don't think he would understand that.

Sheridan's mother looks the spitting image of her daughter, even doing to the calm, level-headed manner, until she starts spitting accusations at me. Things along the lines of how Sheridan had trained for this, how she was prepared for it, how could she die and how could I be here instead. I don't know what to do. I know my death isn't on her hands. But I also know that getting it out is better than bottling up. So I let her scream, let her yell until her voice grows raw, watching as she breaks down in tears in her husband's arms and gets escorted out of the room.

I need a break after that. I feel like crying. I thought I'd been getting rid of that feeling.

It turns out I needed the break more than I thought, because it gets worse after that.

I think Ross' mother has cried herself out, but she looks bad even six months later. But it's who's trailing after her that gets me, because all I've been able to remember about Hariwin Saylor has been a grin full of blood and the glint of weapons barely-there in the dark and I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't had at least one nightmare about him ripping me apart. His brothers look the same as he does.

The older one looks like he's been punched a few times, or more, in the past couple of months. With all the tension here it can't be far off. The younger one scuffs his feet awkwardly across the floor, picking at a thread in his jeans without looking up. He's standing half-behind Ross' mother, doing a spectacularly terrible job at hiding behind her when he's a few inches taller.

I get told about the things that happened. The things they couldn't stop. The death of Hariwin's mother and the blood against the walls, the stains on the floors. Tyge Saylor might as well have been adopted into Ross' barely-there family. They're a rag-tag group of people trying to make sense of what happened and put it back together in whatever way they can.

Not one of them looks like they blame me.

"I need to do something," I tell Della after, quietly, after the three of them have left the room. "They're not — they can't be alright. If Ross volunteered because they were struggling it should be impossible for her to take care of both of them. She lost her son and they lost their family and she what, adopted them? They had nowhere else to go and she barely had an option. It's who she is, it's obvious."

Della is silent for a few, long moments.

"So. How much money do you want to give them?"

"What?"

"Don't give me that. I know you by now. Too selfless for your own good. Give me a number. I'll find a way to get it to them."

Reality comes crashing in. I _can_ help them. It's just a matter of how much I should do.

"Not just them," I say suddenly. "Everyone else too."

Della sighs, but there's a smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.

"I'm going to be making a lot of phone calls."

Ross' mother and Hariwin's brothers. But not just them. Elora's brother. Quill's entire family. The family in Six who is still watching over Spens. Anyone else who needs it.

I did a lot of terrible things. Things that I might not ever be able to get over. But now I can help.

* * *

Lilith's mother looks just as lonely and solemn as she did, only it's in a worse-off way.

It strikes me that she must be alone. That's where Lilith got it from; the desire to be reclusive, to not want any allies or help. She didn't think she needed it. Her mother probably doesn't either, only the circles under her eyes are speaking volumes for what she won't say out-loud.

I don't know anything about her either, just like I couldn't figure Lilith out.

But I do know something. She's just someone else I can help.

* * *

It's hard to feel bad for anyone in District Two when they bred Terron Calvert.

Obviously it wasn't all of them, or even a large percentage, but somewhere along the line someone did something that fucked him over in an impossible way. His parents don't even look like they particularly care - his father is broad-shouldered and disinterested, glancing off into the distance more than paying attention. His mother is meek in his shadow.

They don't need my help. They're probably past helping, judging by the looks in both of their eyes.

Just like Terron was.

If this tour's proven anything, it's that the apple never falls from the tree.

* * *

Finding out Camilla was pregnant was something I've still barely spoken about.

She didn't even know, for a while there, and I can't imagine the feeling. It wasn't just her life. By winning I robbed District One not of one life, but two. Camilla could have come home and raised her child, been happy. Her family acted shocked, her sister dramatic and arrogant. She didn't seem to particularly care. I still think she would have been happy, though, winning and coming home and living the life she didn't ask for but got anyway.

The look in Perseus Vellere's eyes is certainly saying so, but I don't get to see much more than that.

Amara's friends are more caring than her family is. They're a group I didn't expect, kinder and nicer than what One is painted as, saddened but not blaming me in any way, shape or form. It almost reminds me of what's back home for me, only I think I've got more fixing to do than them.

I can't help Estelle's family. They're not past saving, but something else entirely.

They don't need the money. They don't want my forgiveness.

I still have to try.

Her brother Duke is quieter than I would have expected, and not just because she's dead, but there's something stronger in his eyes. It's obvious why - his frame may look wiry to some but there are calluses on his hands, a clenching to his fists that's bred, not born. He's thirteen and he looks leagues older, even older than me. It's impossible to comfort someone who could already be stronger than you, hard to console someone when you killed their sister.

Try. I have to try. To help him in whatever way I can.

"Don't volunteer," I plead, just as he's turning to leave the room. Duke pauses, hand on the doorknob, shoulders stiff.

"Don't ... don't let it happen again. I know it's what you're taught to do, it's all you know. I don't want you to end up like her."

The silence stretches. I don't know if I should say something else. He still isn't leaving, but he doesn't even turn around when he speaks.

"She wouldn't have ended up like that if you hadn't killed her."

He rips the door open without looking.

He's gone in the next second.

* * *

I block out the Capitol in favor of thinking about home.

It's hard to, when there's constant strobe lights blinding you and screaming that's more high-pitched than I thought possible.

Vero still hugs me, tight and reassuring when I get off the train. Marylaw flails her arms around in the hopes of getting the last few straggling cameramen that still bother me as far away as possible. It takes me a few seconds to realize that out of everyone there, Soren's one of the few that isn't. All I need are those few seconds to imagine every horrible situation possible.

It's my Mom who senses the panic that I'm shoving down, because she's always been the same way. Her hand is on my back almost instantly, turning me towards her.

"He's fine. Don't worry. I promise."

"Yeah!" Vinsley pipes up from over my shoulder. "Has the plague, or whatever."

"He has the _flu_, Vi."

"Still. Don't want him anywhere near me. I thought he was dying a few days ago."

It's still my Mom who steers me back home and attempts to make me sleep before she lets me go see him, or do anything else, for that matter. I know I have to look about as hellish as I feel at this point. I've been running so much and I don't even feel like talking anymore, not to anyone.

It doesn't stop me from staring at my ceiling for three hours before I give up on sleeping, creeping down the stairs and out the front door without anyone noticing.

Soren's mother opens the door, enveloping me in a warm hug as soon as she realizes it's me. It startles me, for a moment. It took a while to realize that not all contact was inherently bad.

"He's gotten over the worst of it. He's still in and out, for the most part, but he'll be fine. Just being pig-headed. Which is no real surprise," she laughs lightly, opening his door a fraction. "Still asleep. But go ahead."

I don't know if Soren told her, or if someone else did, but there's a telling tone in her voice that says she knows. It might also be the fact that she closes the door with a barely audible click once I'm inside. Sure enough, he's out cold, sprawled under a layer of blankets three times his size. Only the top of his head is sticking out, or rather the nest that has become his hair. I sit down carefully on the edge of the bed, pull my legs up, and lay down next to him, not even bothering to attempt with the mound of blankets.

I can barely see his face, but he looks younger. Maybe we all do.

Maybe it's five minutes, maybe it's an hour. All I know is that somewhere along the line I fall asleep, curled in on myself, and when I wake up I'm facing towards the door but Soren's forehead is pressed between my shoulder-blades, one of his hands brushing against my side.

It feels safe. Something like home.

* * *

"I'm coming in."

"No."

Marylaw evidently doesn't listen. Five minutes ago it had been just me and Soren, my head resting somewhere along the vicinity of his stomach, and then we had heard two distinct voices from the bottom of the stairs. Both of us had groaned, almost simultaneously.

It took all of a heartbeat for Vinsley to end up sprawled out at the edge of my bed with us. And, now, evident by the elbows I'm getting hit with, Marylaw's decided that she wants in on whatever's going on. She settles half against my side, her head resting in the crook of Soren's knee.

"This is nice," Vinsley sighs. Soren kicks him, although there's barely any force behind it and definitely no malice.

It's true, though. The bitter chill of winter is still around the house, but it's starting to go away. And I have this. I have my life.

Vero appears in the doorway, cradling an armful of puppy. I don't know where she found it. All I know is that she showed up with it and the pair of them both gave me dead-on, literal puppy eyes. So now we have a dog.

"I was wondering what was going on in here," Vero starts. "But seeing it makes me not want to know."

"Personally, I am offended," Marylaw states. "Kiero, tell her were being appropriate."

I must stay silent for too long, because Vero laughs and disappears down the hall. I get two glares from both lumps at the end of the bed. I shift, draping my legs over at least one of them, and re-settle my head against Soren. He's drawing absentminded circles into my shoulder with the tip of his finger. I crane my head back, no doubt digging into his ribs. His eyes trail from his own hand to my face, slowly. He looks at ease. Happy. Probably happier than I've ever seen him, and I know I feel the same way.

It reminds me of the arena, but not in a bad way. Laughing with Elora and Spens. Knowing that they were always a step behind me, that I had them. That I still do, in whatever way exists.

Somewhere, the sun rises. Maybe not here, but it feels like it is.

Yeah.

I'm alright.

* * *

Should've titled this chapter Corny As Hell.

Well. That's the end. Figured everyone deserved at least some shred of happiness after what I put you and them through. Not much else to say. I'll see whoever makes it there in Mayday. Thank you guys for sticking around, if you have, and all in all being lovely, beautiful people that allowed me to hurt you in such ways. Love you guys.

Until next time.


End file.
